Alexithymia
by RedBowRibbon
Summary: What happens when a smart girls meets one of the most famous detective in the era? Will she be able to followe his steps in his clearly messed up and strange cases? This is story is all before Watson arrived. This is all narrated from Amarantha's p.o.v
1. Prologue

I never really cared for what anyone or about what they did. It's sticks and stones, right along with I'm rubber and you're glue, it never really mattered what others did.

So why did I suddenly begin to care what Sherlock Holmes thought about me? He was nothing but a consulting detective with a knee weakening smile & to make matters worst, my room-mate . A guy who seemed to believe everything in life was connected somehow.

He believes something like the flap of a butterfly's wing can change things across the world. The paradox of alternate realities, the many changes and things that could do and might have been. If only one thing happened or the other, if only one change, one moment could be redone, then maybe things would have been different. If you could go back and relive that moment and do something differently, history as you know it may have been changed.

But then he said he considered everyone a unit, a factor to a problem.

And to this day I stil wander how i became the small exception of his rules.

This is my story.

~Amarantha Devereaux


	2. Chapter One: Beginnings

I smiled as Gracelyn and I jumped down from the huge steamboat.

I still remember that day, that Thursday evening when I met her, everyone was already eating down at the eating hall.

I didn't go down of course, like I did most of the time, and headed over at the lounge room.

I've had never been to the lounge, I usually headed up to my cabin, but I felt like reading that time.

I mean everyone talks about the lounge, it can't be that bad?

I slowly opened the door and looked around at the large room.

It was pretty much full of people, everyone was sitting down or standing, talking, drinking or reading.

There was no place to sit down, except for a bench in which a girl was sitting, books sorrounded her.

Some seemed medical books, others seemed to be cheesy romance novels.

The girl looked up at me as I walked towards her eyeing the seat next to her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bug you, I just didn't think you would mind." I said quickly as I scratched my head awkwardly.

She gave me a small shrug. "It's alright, this seems to be the only place to sit anyway." She said as she eyed the room carefully.

The girl went back to her reading and I suddenly wasn't sure what to do.

She then looked up at me and studied me long and hard.

"Okay, sit down." She finally told me as she scooted over a bit.

"Amarantha Devereaux." I smiled as I sat down. "But you can call me whatever you like."

"Gracelyn Thorpe." She answered me returning my smile. "From America eh?"

I grinned and nodded my head. "Yes, New Orleans actually, my family is from London though. I see by the way you speak you're from America too."

She nodded her head proudly. "Yep I'm sure I was born in the wrong country, my parents are Sweden you see."

From that point on we became best friends.  
We did everything together.

"Here you go, miss." I heard someone say .

"Amy? Amarantha!" Gracelyn called me as she waved her hand infront of me. "Snap out of it."

That surely brought me back to my senses. I sighed and rolled my eyes at her and gave the button a shrilling as he shoved my bags at me. "Thanks."

He gave me a slight bow and nodded.

"You sure do that a lot don't you?" Grace chuckled as I glared at her.

I smiled. "Yes I do, got an issue with that?"

"Not at all Amy." She said as we walked down the pier trying to get to then nearest restaurant. "I'm so starving."

When I ran into someone.

My bags flew to the ground and so did the guys.

"I am so sorry." I said as I started to pick my things up.

"Yeah yeah, it's okay." He said in a rushed voice as he looked pass me at the cab that was apparently waiting for him.

He quickly picked up my belongings and handed them to me and ran off.

"Thank you!" I called out as I stood up.

He waved his hand in the air gesturing he heard me.

"Who was that?" I asked Grace as soon as the guy was out of sight.

She walked up next to me and grinned. "I don't know, I never saw him on the boat, but he was hot."

I looked at her and nodded my head. "Yeah he was."

We didn't see the guy again until two weeks later, during the week, everyone was trying to buy their clothes and get as much time outside before it started to become cold and rainy.

Grace and I were stading outside the Flickwicks Clothewear store, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

I curiously turned and looked at the person who was standing next to me and immediatley secognized young Nathaniel Black, who had been in the same ship in which we had come to London.

As soon as Grace recognized him she ran towards him and hugged him so hard, she almost made him fall down by the force of her impulse, causing a few passerbys stare at the three of us awkwardly.

The sight of another friendly face in the middle of a foreign city was more than pleasant for me, considering that I didn't know anyone at all apart from Grace. At the boat Nathaniel had never been a particularly friend of mine, but I wasn't going to start complaining.

I smiled at him warmly as he pulled himself away from Grace's tight grip.

"What have you been doing with yourself, ladies?" He asked in undiguised wonder as the three walked through the crowded streets of London. "You're both so pale."

Grace rolled her eyes slightly. "Yes I know, our stay here hasn't been as swift for us as it appears to have been to you."

"What a shame." He exclaimed commiserantingly by the time we had reached our destination. "What are you up to now?"

"Looking for a place to stay." I answered with a negative sigh. "Trying to solve the problem as to whether is it possible to find a comfortable room at a reasonable price."

"That's a strange thing." Nathaniel remarked. "You're the second person I have heard that has used that expression today."

"That's pretty strange." I raised my brow questioningly. "Who was the first?"

"A fellow who is working in a chemical laboratory up at the hospital. He was bemoaning himself this morning at my house because he says he can't find no-one to go halves with him in some nice room which he had found, and which was too much for his pocket."

"My god!" I grinned enthusiastically, shoving a strand of blonde hair away from my face. "If he seriously wants someone to share the rooms and the expense, I'll be more than glad to do so. That way it'll be easier for Grace to find a place to stay too."

Gracelyn clapped her hands together. "You should go meet with him; this is are insanely good news."

Nathaniel Black looked rather strangely at us. "You ladies don't know Sherlock Holms yet," he said; "perhaps you would not like him at a room mate at all."

"Why, what's wrong with him?" Grace asked curiously.

"Oh, I didn't say there was anything wrong with him. He's a little queer in his ideas –and enthusiast in some branches of science. As far as I know he's a decent fellow, though."

"Oh, a medical student I suppose?" I asked bitterly. Having a family full of them was enough already.

"No –I have no idea what he's up to. I believe he is well up in anatomy, and he's a first-class chemist; but as far as I am concerned, he has never taken out any medical classes. His studies are very desultory and eccentric, but he has amassed a lot of out-of-the-way knowledge which would astonish his professors."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Did you ever ask him what he was going for?"

"No, he is not the kind of man that is easy to draw out, though he can be communicative enough when the fancy seizes him."

"I should like to meet him." I said impatiently. "If I am to live with anyone, I would surely prefer to meet them first."

"Yeah you should, I'll go back to the hotel, if you don't come back I'll tell the landlord than you moved out." Gracelyn laughed merrily as she turned around and walked out of our sight.

"I'm not really sure were to find him, though he might probably be at his laboratory." Nathaniel answered slowly. "He is either avoids going there for weeks or works there from morning till night. If you like I can drive you around after you get your clothes."

"Certainly." I grinned and soon the conversation drifted away into other channels.

As we made our way towards the Hospital after leaving Flitcwicks Clothewear, Nathaniel gave me a few particulars about the gentlemen whom I decided to take in as a fellow room-mate.

"You musn't blame me if you don't get along with him." he said nervously. "I've just me him ocassionally at the laboratory a few times."

"If we don't get along it will be easy for me to go back to were Gracelyn and I were staying. " I answered. "It seems to me Nathaniel," I added glaring hard and long at him. "That you must have some reason for not wanting to take part in the matter. So tell me, is this guy such a jerk as you make him appear to be?"

"It's not easy to explain." He said with a nervous laugh. "Holmes is a little to scientific for my tastes –it almost approaches to the being cold blooded. I could imagine him giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand Amarantha, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have a an accurate idea of the effect. To do him justice, I think he would take it himself with the same readiness. He appears to have a passion for definite and exact knowledge."

"That's doesn't seem that bad."

"Yes, but it may be pushed to the extent. When it comes to beating the subjects in the disecting rooms with a stick, it is certainly taking a bizarre shape."

"Beating the subjects?!"

"Yes to verify how far the bruises my be produced after death. I saw him at it with my own eyes."

"And yet you tell me he is no medical student?" I sneered.

"No. No-one really knows what the objects of his studies are. But here we are, and you must form your own impressions about him." As he spoke, we turned down a narrow lane and passed through a small side door, which opened into a wing of the great hospital.

It was an awfully familiar ground to me, and I needed no guidance as we ascended the bleak stone staircase and made our way down the long corridor with its vista of whitewhashed walls and dim-colored doors. Near the father end a low arched passage branched away from it and led to the chemical laboratory.

This was big chamber, lined and littered with countless bottles. Broad, low tables were scattered about, which bristled with retorts, test-tubes, and little Bunsen burners, with their blue flickering flames. There was only one student in the room, who was beding over a distant table absorbed in his work. At thesound of our steps he glanced round and sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure. "I've found it! I've fount it," He shouted to Nathaniel, running towards us with a test-tube in his hand. "I've found a re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else!" He had discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shone upon his features.

"Miss Amarantha Devereaux, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," Nathaniel said, introducing us.

"How are you?" He said cordially, gripping my hand and kissing it slightly, I rolled my eyes . "You have been to America, I percieve."

"How on earth did you know that?" I asked in atonisment.

"Never mind," he said, chuckling to himself. "The question now is about haemoglobin. No doubt you see the significance of this discovery fo mine?"

"It is interesting, chemically, no doubt." I answered giving him an incredolous look.  
"But pratically-"

"Why, Amarantha, it is the most pratical medico-legal discovery for years. Don't you see that it gives us an infallible test for blood stains? Come over here now." He siezed me by my coatsleeve in eagerness, and drew me over to the table at which he had been working. "Let us have some fresh blood, please."

"Excuse me?" He grabbed my index finger digging a long bodkin into it, and drawing off the resulting drop of blood in a chemical pipette. "Ouch, what's wrong– "

"Now, I add this small quantity of blood to a litre of water." He continued totally cutting me off as if drawing blood from a person he had just met wasn't such a big of a deal after all. "You percieve that the resulting mixture has the appearance of pure water. The proportion of blood cannot be more than one in a million. I have no doubt, however, that we shall be able to optain characteristic reaction."

As he spoke, he threw into the vessel a few white crystals, and then added some drops of a transparent fluid. In an instant the contents assumed a dull magohany colour, and a brownish dust was precipitated to the bottle of the glass jar.

"Ha! ha!" He grinned, clapping his hands, and looking as delighted as a kid with a new toy. "What do you think of that?"

"It seems a very delicate test." I remarked, but I couldn't help but smile at his reaction, so amusing.

"Beautiful! beautiful! The old guaiacium test was very clumsy and uncertain. So is this miscroscopic examination for blood corpuscles. The latter is valueless if the stains are a few hours old. Now, this appears to act as well whether the blood is old or new. Had this test been invented, there are a hundreds od men now walking on earth who would long ago have paid for penalty of their crimes."

"Indeed!" I murmed to myself, quite atonished still.

"Criminal cases are continually hinging upon rgar one point. A man is suspected of a crime months perhaps after it has been committed. His linen or cloths are examined and brownish stains discovered upon them. are they blood stains, or mud stains, or rain stains, or fruit stains, o what are they? That is a question which has puzzled many experts, and why? Because there was no reliable test. Now we have the Sherlock Holme's test, and there will no longer be any difficulty."

His eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he placed his hand over his heart and bowed as if to some applauding crowd conjured up by his imagination.

"You are to be congratulated." I grinned, considerably surprised at his enthusiasm.

"There was the case of Von Bischoff at Frankfort last year. He would certainly been hung had this test been in existence. Then there was the Mason of Bradford, and the notorious Muller, and Lefevre of Montepellier, and Samson of New Orleans. I coudld name a score of cases in which it would have been decesive."

"You are a walking calendar of crime." Nathaniel said with a laugh. "You might start a paper on those lines. Call it the 'Police News of the Past.'"

"Very interesting reading it might be made, too." Sherlock Holmes answered, grabbing my hand yet again and sticking a small piece of plaster over the prick on my finger.

"I'm really sorry about that, but I couldn't afford another one of those on my hands." He continued, turning to me with a smile. "For I dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his own hand as he spoke, and I noticed that it was all mottled over with similar pieces of plaster, and discoloured with strong acids.

"Anyway, we came here on business." Nathaniel said, sitting down on a hig stool, and pushing another one in my direction with his foot. "My friend here wants a place to stay; and as you were complaining that you could get no one to go halves with you, I though that I had better bring you together."

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted by the idea of sharing his rooms with me. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street," he said, "Which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?"

"Not at all, my father used to smoke 'ship's' of it all the time." I answered.

"That's good enough. I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means."

"Let me see –what are my other shortcomings? I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think that I'm skully when I do that. Just leave me alone, and I'll soon be alright. What have you to confess? It's just as well for two people to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

I laughed eagerly at his cross-examination. "I keep a closet full of clothes." I said. "I bite my lip a lot when my nerves are shaken, I object to rows when I'm annoyed, and I get up at all sorts of ungodly hours, and I am extremely lazy. I have another set of fetishes, but those are the principals ones at the present."

"Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" He asked, anxiously.

"It depends on the player," I answered with a smirk. "A well-played violin is a treat for the gods –a bladly played one in the other hand…"

"Oh, that's alright." He said with a merry laugh. "I think we may consider the thing as settled –that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you."

"When would we see them?"

"Call me here at noon tomorrow, and we'll go together and settle everything." He answered.

"Alrigt –at noon exactly." I said, shaking his hand.

We left him working among his chemicals, and we walked together towards the hotel in which Grace and I were currently staying at.

"By the way," I askwed suddenly, stopping and turning upon Nathaniel. "How the hell did he know that I had come from America?"

Nathaniel smiled enigmatically. "That's just his little peculiarity." He said. " A good many people have wanted to know how he finds things out."

"Oh! A mystery is it?" I bit my lip rubbing my hands. "This very interesting. I owe you one for bringing us together. 'The proper study of mankind is man' you know."

"You must study him then," Nathaniel said, as he waved me goodbye. "You'll find him a knotty problem, though. I bet that he learns more about you than you about him. Goodbye."

"Goodbye." I answered, and strolled on to the hotel, considerably interested in my new acquaintance. 


	3. Chapter Two: Middles

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock Holmes Series. Though Amarantha and Gracelyn belong to me3

Author's Notes: Sometimes Amarantha ought to keep her mouth shut. Well i'm glad people are reading this :D  
Pleasy rate&comment it means so much to me. xD

* * *

We met the next day as he had arranged, and inspected the rooms at No. 221b, Baker Street, of which he had spoken in our meeting. They consisted of a couple of comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy sitting-room, cheerfully furnished, and illuminated by two broad windows.

So desireable in every way way were the apartments, and so moderate did the terms seem when divided between us, that the bargain was concluded upon the spot, and we at once entered into possesion.

That very evening I moved my things from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus. For a day or two we were busily employed in unpacking and laying out our property to the best advantage.

As soon as we had got that done we soon began to settle down and to accommodate ourselves to our new sorroundings.

Holmes was certainly not a difficult person to live with. he was quiet in his ways, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, and he had invariably breakfasted and gone out before I even was awake in the morning.

Sometimes he spent his day at the chemical laboratory, sometimes in the dissecting –rooms, and occasionally in long walks, which appeared to take him into the lowest portions of the city. Nothing could exceed his energy when the working fit was upon him; but now and again a reaction would seize him, and for days on ened he would lie upon the sofa in the sitting room, hardly uttering a word or moving a muscle from morning to night.

On these occasions I have noticed such a dreamy, vacant expression in his eyes, that I might have suspected him of being addicted to the use of some narcotic, had not the temperance and cleanliness of his whole life forbidden such a notion.

As the weeks went by, my interest in him and my curiosity as to his aims in life increased. His very person and appearance were such as to strike the attention of the most casual observer. In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably talle. His eyes sharp and piercing, save during those moments of coma like trance in which I saw him; his nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which marked his determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possesed of extraordinary delicacy of touch, as I frequently had seen him manipulating his fragile philosophical instruments.

I must confess how much this guy stimulated my curiosity, and how often I endeavoured to break through the reticence which he showed on all that concerned himself.

Before pronuncing my judgement however there was little to engage my attention. Under this cirscumstances, I eagerly hailed the little mystery which hung around my companion, and spent much of my time in endeavouring to unravel it.

He was certainly not studying medicine. he had himself, in a reply to a question, confirmed Nathaniel's opinion upon that point. Neither did he appear to have pursued any course of reading which migt fight him ofr a degree of science or any other recognized portal which would give him an entrance into the learned world. Yet his zeal for certain studies are remarkable, and withing eccentric limits his knowledge was so extraordinary ample and minute that his observations have fairly astounded me.

Surely no man would work so hard or ttain such precise information unless he had some definite point in view. No-one burdens his mind with small matters unless it has some very good reason for doing ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. Of contemporary literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know nothing at all.

My surprise was even greater when I found accidentally that he was ignorant of the Copernican Theory and of the composition of the Solar System. That any civilized human being in this nineteenth century should not be aware that the earth travelled round the sun appeared to me to be such an extraordinary fact that I could hardly realize it.

"You appear to be atonished." He said smiling at my expression of surprise. "Now that I do now it I shall do my best to forget it."

"To forget it?!"

"You see," He explained. "I consider that a man's brain is like a little empty attic, and you have to fill it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to hum gets croweded up, or at the best jumbles up with a lot of other things, so that he has difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skillfull workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any other extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something that you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowling out the useful ones."

"But the Solar System!" I groaned in protest.

"What the hell is it to me?" He interrupted impatiently; "You say that we go round the sun, If we went around the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or to my work."

I was on the point of asking him what the work might be, but something in his manner told me that the question would be an unwelcomed one.

I saw that I had forgotten about his power upon the violin. There were very remarkable, but as eccentric as all his other accomplishments. That he could play nice pieces, and difficult pieces, I knew well, because at my request he played me some Mendelssohn's Lieder, and other of my favorites.

When left to himself, however, he would produce any music or attempt any recognized air. Leaning back in his armchhair in the evening, he would close his eyes and scrape carelessly at the fiddle which was thrown across his knee. Some other times the notes were a sonorous expression of melancholy.

Ocassionally they were fantastic and cheerful. Clearly they reflected the thoughs which possessed him, but whether the music aided those thoughs, or whether the playing was simply a result of a whim or fancy, was more than I could guess.

I might have complained about the exasperating solos had it not been that he usually termined them by playing in quick succession a whole series of my favorit airs as a compensation for the trial upon my patience. But what he didn't knew, was that most of the time I actually did enjoy his violin playing regardless if he played my favorites and what not.

During the first week or so we had no callers, a part from Gracelyn of of course, and I had begun to think that Sherlock was as friendless as I was myself. Presently however, I found that he had many acquaintances, and those in the most different classes of society.

There was one little sallow, rat-faced, dark eyed fellow, who was introduced to me as Mr. Lestrade, and who came three or four times in a single week. One morning even Gracelyn came and stayed in for half an hour or more, talking to him, and stayed another two hours talking to me. The same afternoon brought a gray-headed, seedy visitor, looking like a Jew peddler, who appeared to me to be much excited, and who was closely followed by a slipshod elderly woman.

On another ocassion and old white-haired gentlemen had an interview with my companion; and on another, a railway porter in his velveteen uniform. When any of these nondescript individuals put in an appearance, Sherlock used to beg for the sitting room, and I would retire to my bedroom.

Though he always apologized to me for putting me to this inconvenience. "I have to use this room as a place for buisiness," He said, "And these people are my clients." Again I had an opportunity of asking him a point-blank question, and again I didn't use it. I imagined at the times that he had some reason for not alluding to it, but he soon dispelled the idea by coming round to the subject in his own accord.

It was upon the 4th of March, as I have good reason to remember, that I woke up somewhat earlier than usual, and found that Sherlock had not yest finished his breakfast. The landlady had become so accustomed to my late habits that my place had not been laid nor my coffee prepared. With the unreasonable petulance I rang the bell to her room and gave a curt sign that I was awake. Then I picked up a magazine from the table and attempted to read in the meentime, my companion munched silently at his toast. One of the articles had a pencil mark at the heading, and I naturally began running my sight through it.

It somewhat ambitious title was "The Book of Life," and it attemped to show how much an observant man might learn by an accurante and systematic examination of all that came in his way.

It struck me as being a remarkable idioticy and absurdity. The reasoning was close and intense , but the deductions appeared to me to be far fetched and more than exaggerated.

The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a tiwtch of a muscle or the glance of an eye, to fanthom a man's inmost thoughts. Deceit, according to him, was an impossibility in the case of one trained to observe and analisys. His conclusions were infallible as so many proposituons of Euclid. So startling would his results appear to the uninititated that until they learned the processes by which he had arrived at them they might consider him a necromancer.

"From a drop of water," said the writer. "a logician could infer the possiblility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. So all life is a great chain, the nature of which is known whenever we are shown a single link of it. Like all the other arts, the Science of Deduction and the Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study, nor is life long enough to allow any person to obtain the highest perfection of it. Before turning to those mortal and mental aspects of the matter which presents the greatest difficulties, let the inquirer begin by mastering the more elementary problems. Let him, on meeting a fellow person, learn at the glance to distinguish the history of the man, and the trade or profession to which he belongs. Purile as such an excersice may seem, it sharpens the facculties of observation, and teaches one to where to look and what to look for. By a man's fingernails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-cuffs –by each of these things a man's calling is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent inquierer in any case is almost inconceiveable."

"What a bunch of inespeakable nonesense.!" I sneered, slapping the magazine down on the table. "I've never read such rubbish in my life."

"What is it?" Sherlock asked as he took a sip from his coffee.

"Why, this article," I accussed, pointing at it with my eggspoon as I sat down for my breakfast. "I see that you have read it since you have marked it. I don't deny that it is smartly written. It irritates me though. It is evidently the theory of some armchair lounger who evolves all these neat little paradoxes in the seclusion of his own study. It is not at all practical. I should like to see him clapped down in a third-class carriage on the Underground, and asked to give the trades of all his fellow travellers. I would lay a thousand and one against him."

"You would loose your money, Amarantha." Holmes remarked calmly. "Seeingas I wrote that article myself."

"You!" I gasped, turning the eggspoon and pointing it at him.

"Yes; I have a turn both for observation and deduction. The theories which I have expressed there, and which appear to be so chimerical to you, are raelly extremely pratical –so practical that I depend upon them for my bread and cheese."

"And how is that?" I asked involuntarily.

"Well, I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I'm a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault, they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent. They lay all the evidence before me, and I am generally able, by help of my knowledge of history of crime, to set them straight. There's a strong family resemblance about misdeeds, and if you have all the details of a thousand at your finger ends, it is odd if you can't unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade is a well-known detective. He got himself into a fog recently over a forgery case, and that was what brought him here."

"And these other people?"

"They are mostly sent on by private agencies. They are all people who are in trouble about something and want a little enlightening. I listen to their story, they listen to my comments and then I pocket my fee."

"But do you mean to say," I said, leaning my head to a side. "That without leaving your room you can unravel some knowt which other men can make nothing off, although they have seen every detail for themselves?"

"Quite so. I have a kind of intuition that way. Now and again a case turns up which is a little more complex. Then I have to to bustle about and see things with my own eyes. You see I have a lot of special knowledge which I apply to the problem, and which facilitates me wonderfully. Those rules of deduction laid down in that article which aroused your scorn are invaluable to me in practical work. Observation with me is second nature. You appeared to be surprised when I told you, on our first meeting, that you had comed from America"

"You were told, no doubt." I said narrowing my eyes at him.

"Nothing of the sort. I _knew_ you came from America. From the long habit the train of thought ran so swiftly through my mind that I arrived at the conclusion without being concious of intermediate steps. There were such steps, however. They train of reasoning ran, 'This is a woman of the adventurous type, with the air of a marquise. Clearly someone of importance. She had just come from the topics, for her face is slightly darker than her natural skin tone, for her writs are fair. She has undergone a hard time." The whole train of thought did not occupy a second. I then remarked that you came from America and you were astonished."

"It is simply enough as you explain it," I said, now smiling cockily. "You remind me of Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin. I had no ideas that individual like yourself existed outside of the stories."

Sherlock Holmes rose and lit his pipe. "No doubt that you think that you are complimenting me in comparing me to Dupin." He observed. "Now, in my opinion, Dupin was a very inferior fellow. That trick of his of breaking in on his friend's thoughts with apropos remark after after a quarter of an hour of silence is really really very showy and superficial. He had some analitycal genius, no doubt; but he was by no means such a phenomenom as Poe appeared to imagine."

"Have you read Gobiarau's works?" I asked coldly. "Does Lecoq come up to the idea of a detective?"

Sherlock sniffed sardonically. "Lecoq was a miserable bungler;" He said in an angry voice. "He had only one thing to recommend him, and that was his energy. That book made me positively ill. The question was how to identify an unknown prisioner. I could have done it in twenty four hours. Lecoq took six months or so. It might as well be made a textbook for detectives to teach them what to avoid."

I felt rather indignant at having two characters whom I really liked treated in this cavalier way. I waled over to the window and stood looking out the busy street. "This guy may be very clever." I sneered in a low voice, "but he is certainly very arrogant."

"There are no crims and no criminals in these days," he said with a grumble. "What is the use of having brains in our profession? I know well that I have it in me to make my name famous. No man lives or has ever lived who has brought the same amount of study and of natural talent to thedection of crime which I have done. And what is the result? There is no crime to dectect, or, at the most, some bungling villainy with a motive so transparent that even a Scotland Yard official can see through it."

I was so annoyed at his bumptious style of conversation, that I thought it best to change the topic.

"I wonder what that fellow is looking for?" I asked, pointing to a stalwart, plainly dressed individual who was walking slowlu down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers. he had a large blue envelope in his hands, and was evidently the bearer of a message.

"You mean the retired sergeant of Marines?" Sherlock looked back towards me and asked.

The thought had hardly passed through my mind when the man whom we were watching caught sight of the number on our door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. We heard a loud knock, a deep voice below, and heavy steps ascending the stair.

"For Mr. Sherlock Holmes." He said stepping into the room and handing my friend the letter.

Here was an opportunity of taking the arrogance out of him. "May I ask, sir," I asked, in the blandest voice as I arranged my hair slightly. "What your trade may be?"

"Commissionaire, ma'am." He gruffly said. "Uniform away for repairs."

"And you were?" I asked, with a slightly malicious glance at Sherlock, he just raised an eyebrow and smirked at me.

"A seargent, ma'am, Royal Marine Light Infrantry, ma'am. No answer? Right, ma'am."

He clicked his heels together, raised his hand in salute, and was gone.

_Crap._


	4. Chapter Three: Ends

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock Holmes.

Author's Notes: Awkward situation at the end haha. I hope you guys are enjoying the series. I'll post until chapter five today.

* * *

I confess that I was considerably astonished by gush fresh proof of the practical nature of my companion's theories. My respect for his powers of analysis increased wondrously.

There still remained some lurking suspicion in my mind that the whole thing was a prearranged episode, intended to dazzle me, though what earthly object he could have in taking me in was past my comprehension.

When I looked at him, he had finished reading the note; and his eyes had assumed the vacant, lacklustre expression which showed mental abstraction.

"How in the world did you deduce that?" I asked with a sneer.

"Deduce what?" He replied, petulantly. I crossed my arms over my chest.

"Why, that he was a retired sergeant of Marines."

"I have no time for trifles," He answered, brusquely; then with a disarming smile he corrected. "Excuse my rudeness. You broke the thread of my thoughts; but perhaps it is as well. So you actually were not able to see that that man was a sergeant of the Marines?"

"No, indeed." I rolled my eyes at him.

"It was easier to no ut than to explain why I know it. If you were asked to prove that two and two made four, you might find some difficulty, and yet you are quite sure of the fact. Even across the street I could see a great blue anchor tattooed on the back of the fellow's hand. That smacked of the sea. He had a military carriage, however, and regulation side whiskers. ther we have the marine. He was a man with some amount of self-importance and a certain air of command. You musy have observed the way in which he held his head and swung his cane. A steady, respectable, middle-aged man, too, on the face of him –all the facts which let me to believe that he had been a sergeant."

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed with a smile.

"Commonplace." Holmes said, though I thought from his expression that he was pleased at my evident surprise and admiration.

But that all happened two weeks ago. Lets no move onwards to the current events.

Now Sherlock Homes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat marocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forarm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tine piston, an sank back into the velvet lined armchair with a long sight of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many weeks I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary from day to day I had becomed more and more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had resgistered a vow that I should deliver my opinion upo the subject; but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one wuold care to take anything approaching to a liberty.

His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experiences which I had had of his extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could not hold out any longer.

"Which is it today?" I asked with a sneer. "Morphine or cocaine?"

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.

"It is cocaine," He said. "A seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?"

"No, indeed." I replied brusquely. "My constitution has not got over the trip from America yet. I have an awful jetlag, and I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it."

He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Amarantha." He said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so trascendently stimulating and clarifying toi the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."

"But consider," I differed earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be aroused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at the very least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?"

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he placed his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, lie one who has relish for conversation.

"My mind," he said. "Rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abtruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense when with artifical stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world."

"The only unnoficial detective?" I asked raising an eyebrow as I did.

"The only unofficial consulting detective." he answered. "I am the last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson, or Lestrade, or Athelney Jones are out of their depths –which , by the way, is their normal state –the matter is laid before me. I examine the data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim no credit in such cases My name figures in no newspaper. The work itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my particular powers, is my highest rewards. But you have yourself had some experience of my methods of work in my book."

"Yes, indeed." I said cordially. "I was neer so struck by something in my life. I even edited most of it in a small brochure with the somewhat fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet'."

He shook his head sadly.

"I glanced over it." He said with a smirk. "Honestly I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exacy science and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fith proposition of Euclid."

"But the romance was there;" I sneered, and quite nastily I may add. "I could not just tamper with the facts, Sherlock."

"Some facts should be surppresed, or at least, a just sense of proportion should be obersved in treating them. The only point in the case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from effects to causes, by which I succeeded in unravelling."

I was more than annoyed at his criticism of a work which had been specially designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be devoted to his own personal doings.

More than once during the weeks that I have lived with him in Baker Street I had observed that a small vanity underlay my companion's quiet and didactic manner. I made no remark, however, but sat revamping his pamphlet.

"My practice has extended recently to the Continent." Holmes said after a while, filling up his old brier-root pipe "I was consulted last week by Francois le Villard, who, as you probably know, had come rather yo the front lately in the French detective service. He has all the Celtic power of quick intuition, but he is deficient in a wide range of exact knowledge which is essential to the higher developments of his art. The case was concerned with a will and possessed some features of interest. I was able to refer him to two parallel cases, the one in Riga in 1857 and the other one at St. Louis in 1871, which have suggested to him the true solution. Here is the letter which I had this morning acknowledging my assistance."

He tossed over, as he spoke, a crumpled sheet of foreign notepaper. I glanced my eyes down it, catching a profusion of notes of admiration, with stray magnifiques, coups-de-maîtres and tours-de-force, all testifying to the admiration of the french guy.

"He speaks as a pupil to his master." I chuckled.

"Oh, he rates my assistance too highly." Sherlock said lightly. "He has considerable gifts himself. He posses two of the three qualities necessary for the ideal detective. He has the power of observation and that of deduction. He is only wanting in knowledge and that may come in time. he is now translating my small works into French."

"Your works?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" He cried laughing. "Yes, I have been guilty of several monographs apart from that pahmplet you revised. They are all upon technical subjects. For example, is one "Upon the Dinstiction between the Ashes of the Various Tobaccos.' In it I enumerate a hundred and forty forms of cigar, cigareyye, and pipe tobacco, with coloured plates illustrating the difference in the ash. It is a point which is continually turning up in criminal trials, and which sometimes of supreme importance as a clue. If you can say definitely, for example, that some murder has been done by a man who was smoking and Indian lunkah, it obviously narrows your field of search. To the trained eye there is as much differeny between the black ash of a Trichinopoly and the white fluff of bird's-eye as there is between a cabbage and a potato."

"You have an extraordinary genius for minutiae." I remarked.

"I appreciate their importance. Here is my monograph upon the tracing of footsteps, with some remarks upon the uses of plaster of Paris is a preserver of impresser. Here, too, is a curious little work upon the influence of a trade upon the form of the hand, with lithotypes of hands of slaters, sailors, corkcutters, compositors, wavers, and diamond polishers. That is a matter of great practical interest to the scientific detective –especially in cases of unclaimed bodies, or in discovering the atecedents of criminals. But I weary you with my hobby."

"Not at all," I answered with a smile. "It is of the greatest interest to me, especially since I have had the oppurtunitu of observing your practical application of it. But you spoke just now of observation and deduction. Surely the one to some extent implies the other."

"Why, hardly." He answered, leaning back luxuriously in his armchair and sending up thick blue wreaths from his pipes. "For example, observation shows me that you have been to the Wigmore Street Post-Office this morning, but deduction lets e now that when you were there you dispatched a telegram."

"Right!" I exclaimed. "Right on both points! But I confess that I don't see how you arrived at it. It was a sudden impulse upon my part, and I have mentioned it to no-one."

"It is simplicity itself," he remared, chuckling at my surprsie –"So absurdly simply that an explanation is superflous; and yet it may serve to define the limits of observation and of deduction. Observation tells me that you have a little redish moud adhering to your shoe's instep. Just opposite the Wigmore Street Office they have taken up the pavement and thrown up some earth, which lies in such a way that is difficult to avoid threading in it in entering. The earth is of this peculiar redish tint which is found, as far as I know, nowhere else in the nighbourhood. So much is observation. The rest is deduction."

"How then, did you deduce the telegram?"

"Why, of course I knew that you had not written a letter, since I sat opposite to you all morning. I see also in your open desk that you have some sheet of stamps and a thick bundle of postcards. What could you go in the post-office for, then but send a wire? Eliminate all the other factors, and the one which remained must be the truth."

"In this care it certainly is so," I replied after a little thought. "The thing however, is, as you say, of the simplest. Would you think me impertinent if I were to put your theories to a more severe test?"

"On the contraty," He answered with a wink. "It would prevent me from taking a second dose of cocaine. I should be delighted to look into any problem which you might submit to me."

"I have heard you say that it is difficult for a man to have any object in daily use without leaving the impress of his individuality upon it, in such a way that the trained observer might read it. Now I have here a watch which has recently come into my possesion. Would you have the kindess to let me have an opinion upon the character of habits of the late owner?"

I handed him over the watch with some slight feeling of amusement in my heart, for the test was, as I thought, an impossible one, and I intended it as a lesson against the somewhat dogmatic tone which he occasionally assumed. He balanced the watch in his hand, gazed hard at the dial, opened the back, and examined the workds first with his eyes and then with a powerful convex lens. I could hadly keep form smiling at his crestfallen face when he finally snapped the case to and ahnded it back.

"There are hardly any data," He remarked. "The watch has been recently cleaned, which robs me of my most suggestive facts."

"You are right," I answered. "It was cleaned before being sent to me."

In my heart I accused my companion of putting forward the most lame and impotent excuse to cover his failure. What date could he explect from a uncleaned watch?

"Though unsatisfactory, my research has not been intirely barren," He observed, staring up at the ceiling with dreamy, lacklustre eyes. "Subject to your correction, I should judge that the watch belonged to your elder brother, who inherited it from your father."

"That you gather, no doubt, from the H.E upon the back?"

"Quite so. The E. suggests your own lastname. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch; so it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually decescends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. You father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother."

"Right, so far." I said cockily. "Anything else?"

"He was a man of untidy habits –very untidy and careless. He was left with good prospects, but he threw away his chances, lived for some time in poverty with occasional shot intervals of prosperity, and finally, taking to drink, he died. That is all I can gather."

I sprang from my chair and walked impatiently about the room with considerable bitterness.

"This is unworthy of you, Holmes." I hissed. "I could not have believed that you would have descended to this. You have made inquiries into the history of my unhappy brother, and you now pretend to deduce this knowledge in some fanciful way. You cannot expect me to believe that you have read all this form his old watch! It is unkind, and to speak plainly, has a touch of charlatanism in it."

"My dear Amarantha," He said kindly, as he stood and placed his hands on my shoulders trying to stop my incesant pacing. "Pray accept my apologies. Viewing the matter as an abstract problem, I had forgotten how personal and painful a thing it might be to you. I assure you, however, that I never eve knew you had a brother until you handed me the watch."

"Then how in the name of all that is wonderful did you get these facts? They are absolutely correct in every freaking way."

"Ah, that is good luck. I could only say that was the balance of probability. I did not at all expect to be so accurate."

"But it was not mere guesswork?" I said now lowering my tone.

"No, no. I never guess. That is a shocking habit –destructive to the logical faculty. What seems strange to you is only so because you do noy followe my train of thought or observe the small facts upon the large inferences may depend. For example, I began by stating that your brother was careless. When you observe the lower part of that watch-case you notice that it is not only tinted in two places but it is cut and marked all over from the habit of keeping other hard objects, such as coins or keys, in the same pocket. Surely it is no great feat to assume that a man who treats a fifty-guinea watch so cavalierly must be a careless man. Neither it is a very far-fectched that the man who inherits one article of such value is pretty well provided for in other respects."

I nodded my head slightly to show that I followed his reasoning.

"It is very custumary for pawnbrokers in England, when they take a watch, to scratch the number of the ticket with a pinpoint upon the inside of the case. It is more handy than a label as there is no risk of the number being lost or transposed. There are no less than four such number visible to my lens on the inside of this case. Inference –that your brother was often a low water. Secondary inference –that he had occasional burst of prosperity or he could not have redeemed the pledge. Finally, I as you to look at the inned plate, which contains the keyhole –marks that the key has slipped. What sober man's key could hae scored those grooves? But you will never see a drunkard's watch without them. He winds it at night, and he leaved these traces of his unsteady hand. Where is the mystery in all this?"

"It is as clear as daylight," I answered with a sigh. "I regret y injustice which I did you. I should have more faith in your marvelous faculty. May I asked wether you have any professional inquiry on foot at present?"

"None. Hence the cocaine. I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window there. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts acorss the duncoloured houses. What-"

I had carelessly wrapped my arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug, leaving him open mouthed and startled at my sudden impulse.

"Why-"

"Sometimes you just need to shut up, m'kay?" I said as I looked up at him, still hugging him tightly.

He looked around, avoiding my gaze as he grabbed my hands trying to loosen my grasp when, with a crisp knock, our landlady entered, making our current situation about more awkward that it already way.

Thankfully she ignored us as Holmes finally got out of my grasp and dusted his shirt.

"A young lady for you sir," She said, adressing my companion, bearing a card upon the brass salver.

"Miss Miriam Hale." He read. "Hum, I have no recollection of the name. Ask the lady to step up, Mrs. Hudson. Don't go, Amarantha. I should prefer that you remain." He said startling me with his sudden smile.


	5. Chapter Four: Miss Miriam Hale

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock Holmes. Though I own Amarantha Devereaux & Miss Miriam Hale

Author's Notes: We meet an interesting character, Miss Miriam Hale; Amarantha and her have a rough start at first but she ends up being really useful to later character developments. Oh btw i got a formspring account! if you want to ask any question, story related or random. & thanks for the ratings!

* * *

Miss Hale entered the room with a firm step and an outward compusure of manner. She was a red-haired girl, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste. There was, however, a plainness and simplicity about her costume which bore it a suggestion of limited means. The dress was a sombre grayish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of a white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexcion, but her expression was sweet and amiable. I could now but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes palced for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

"I have come to you, Mr. Holmes," She said, "Because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill."

"Mrs. Cecil Forrester," He repeated thoughtfully. "I beliebe that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one."

"She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine. I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself."

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. he leaned forwards in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his features.

"State your case," Sherlock said in a birsk business tone.

I felt that my position was an embarrassing one.

"You will, I am sure, excuse me." I said, rising from my chair.

To my surprise, Sherlock Holmes held up his hand to detain me. Causing Ms. Hale to glare at me slightly and turn again to look at Holmes as he spoke.

"My dear Amarantha," He said. "Would you be good enough to stop, you might be of inestimable service to us."

I relapsed into my chair.

"Briefly," She cotinued. "the fact are these. My father was an officer in an Indian regiment, who sent me home when I was quite a child. My mother was dead, and I had no relative in England. I was placed, however, in a comfortable noarding establishment at Edinburgh, and there I remained until I was seventeen years of age. In the year 1878 my father, who was senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months' leave and came home. He telegraphed to me from London that he had arrived all safe and directed to me to come down at once, giving the Langham Hotel as his adress. His messahe, as I remember, was full of kindness and love. On reaching London I drove to Langham and was imformed that Captain Hale had not returned. I waited all day without news from him. That night, on the advice of the manager of the hotel, I communicated with the police, and the next morning we advertised in all the papers. Our inquiried led to no result; and from that day to this no word has ever been heard of my unfortunate father. He came home with his heart full of hope to find some peace, some comfort and instead –"

She put her hand to her throat, and a choking sob cut short the sentence. I rolled my eyes at her dramatism.

"The date?" Holmes asked, opening his notebook.

"He dissapeared upon the third of December, 1878 –nearly ten years ago."

"His luggage?"

"Remained at the hotel. There was nothing in it to suggest a clue –some clothes, some books, and a considerable number of curiosities from the Andaman Islands. He had been one of the officers in charge of the convict-guard there."

"Had he any friends in town?"

"Only one that we know of –Major Sholto, of his own regiment, the Thirty-fourth Bombay Infantry. The major had retired some little time before and lived at Upper Norwood. We communicated with him, of course, but he did not even know that his brother officer was in England."

"A singular case," remarked Holmes.

"I have not yet described to you the most singular part. About six years ago –to be exact, upon the fourtj of May, 1882 –and advertisement appeared in the Times asking for the address of MissMiriam Hale, and starting that it would be to her advantage to come forward. There was no name or address appended. I had at the time just entered the family of Mrs. Cecil Forrester in the capacity of governess. By her advice I published my address in the advertisment column. The same day there arrived through the post a small cardboard box addressed to me, which I found to contain a very large and lustrous pearl. No word of writing was enclosed. Since then every year upon the same date there has always appeared a similar bo, containing a similar pearl, without any clue as to the sender. they have been pronounced by an expert to be of a rare variety and of considerable value. You can see for yourself that they are very pretty."

She opened a flat box and showed me six of the finest pearls that I have ever seen.

"Your statement is most interesting," Sherlock Holmes said. "Has anything else occurred to you?"

"Yes, and no later than today. That is why I have come to you. I received this letter, which you will perhaps read for yourself."

"Thank you," said Holmes. "The envelope, too, please. Postmark, London, S.W. Date, July 7. Hum Man's thumbmark on the corner –probably the postman. Bes quality paper. Envelopes at sixpence a packet. Particular man in his stationary. No address. 'Be at the thrid pillar from the left outside Lyceum Theatre tonight at seven o' clock. If you are distrustful bring two friends. You are wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. Your unknown friend.'  
Well really, this is a very pretty little mystery! What do you intend to do, Miss Hale?"

"That is exactly whart I want to ask you."

"Then we shall most certainly go –you and I and –yes, why Miss Amarantha is the very girl. Your correspondent says two friends. She and I are very close indeed."

"But would she come?" She asked with something of disdain in her voice and expression.

"I shall be proud and happy," I said fervently with a smirk as I turned to Holmes. "If I can be of any service."

"You are both very kind," She answered in a somehow bored tone. "I have let a retired life and have no friends, whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I suppose?"

"You must not be later," Holmes said. "There is one other point, however. Is this handwriting the same as upon the pearl box addresses?"

"I have them here," She answered, producing half a dozen pieces of paper.

"You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition. Let us see, now," He spread out the papers upon the table and gave little darting glances from one to the other. "They are disguised hands, except for the letter," He said presently, "But there can be no question as to the authorship. See how the irrepressible Greek e will break out, and see the twirl of the final s. They are undoubtely by the same person. I should not like to suggest false hopes, Miss, Hale, but is there any resemblance between this hand and that of your father?"

"Nothing could be more unlike."

"I expected to hear you say so. We shall look out for you, then, at six. Pray allow me to keep the papers. I may look into the matter before then. It is only half-past three, Au revoir, then."

"Au revoir," Said our visitor, and with a bright, kindly smile at Holmes, she replaced her pearl-box in her boso and hurried away.

Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street until the Hale turban and white feather ware but a speck in a sombre crowd.

"She was very pretty," I said, turning to my companion.

He had lit his pipe and was leaning back with drooping eyelids. "Is she?" he said languidly causing me to smile inwards. "I did not observe."

"You really are a calculating machine," I grinned. "There is something positively inhuman in you at times."

He smiled gently.

"It is of the first importance," He said, "not to allow judgement baised by personal qualities. A client is to me a mere unit, a factor in a problem. The emotional qualities are antagonisticc to clear reasoning."

"However- "

"I have never made an exception. An exception disproves the rule. Have you ever had ocassion to study character handwriting? What do you make of this fellow's scribble?"

"It is legible and regular," I answered. "A man of business habits and some force of character."

Holmes shook his head.

"Look at his long letters," he said. "They hardly rise above the common herd. That d might be an a, and that l and e. Men of character always deffirentiate their long letters, however illegibly they may write. There is a vacillation in his k's and selfesteem in his capitals. I am going out now. I have some few references to make. Let me recommend this book –one of the most remarkable ever penned. It is Victor Hugo's Le Miserables. I shall be back in an hour."

I sat in the window with the volume in my hand, but my thoughts were far from the daring speculations of the writer. My mind ran upon Holmes –his smiles, the deep rich tones of his voice, the strange of mystery which overhung his life. So I sat down and mused until such dangerous thoughts came into my head and I hurried away to my desk and plunged into the latest treatise upon pathology. What was I, an American girl with a weak sense of self-restraint and a weaker bank account, that I should dare to think of such things?

I was after all a unit, a factor –and he doesn't make exceptions.


	6. Chapter Five: Roads

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

Authors Note's: Well i left you guys with a cliffhanger muahaha. Also i'm a bit dissapointed that no-one had messaged me or asked any questions for me in formspring. I was really looking forwards to it. So i hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

* * *

It was halve past five before Holmes returned. He was brighter, eager and in excellent spirits, a mood which in his case alternated with fits of the darkest depression.

"There is no great mystery in the matter," he said taking the cup of tea whichi had poured out for him. "the facts appear to admit only one explanation."

"What?! You solved it already?"

"Well, that would be too much to say; I have discovered a suggestive fact, that is all. It is, however, very suggestive. The details are still to be added. I have just found on consulting the backfiles of the _Times_ that Major Sholto , of Upper Norwood, late of the Thirthy-Fourth Bombay Infantry,died upon 28th of April, 1882."

"I may sound very ignorant, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests."

"No? You surprise me. Look at it this way, then. Captain Hale disappears. The only person in London whom he could have visited is Major Sholto. Captain Hale dies having heard that he was in London. Four years later Sholto dies _Within a week of his death_ Captain Hale's daughter receives a present, which is repeated from year to year and now culminates in a letter which describes her as a wronged woman. What wrong can it refer to except the deprivation of her father? And why should the present begin inmmediately after Sholto's death unless it is that Sholto's heir nows something of the mystery and desires to make compensation. Have you any alternate theory which will meet the facts?"

"But what a strange compensation! And how strangely made! Why, too, should he write a letter now, rather than six years ago? Again, the letter speaks of giving her justice. What justice can she have? It is too much to suppose that her father is still alive. There is no other injustice in her case that you know of."

"There are difficulties; there are certain difficulties." Sherlock Holmes said pensively. "But our expedition of tonight will solve them all. Ah, here is a four-wheeler, and Miss Hale is inside. Are you ready, Amarantha? Then we had better go down, for it is little past the hour."

I picked up my hat and a my long dark red coat, and I observed that Homes took his revolver form his drawer and slipped it into his pocket. It was clear that he thought our night's work might be a serious one.

Miss Hale was muffled in a dark cloak and her face was composed but pale. I guessed she must have some uneasiness at the strange enterprise we were embarking, yet her self-control was steady, and with a smile she answered a few additional questions which Sherlock Holmes put to her.

"Major Sholto was a very particular friend of Papa's," She said with a smile at him. "His letters were full of admiration to the Major. He and Papa were in command of the troops at the Andaman Islands, so they were thrown a great deal together. By the way, a curious paper was found in Papa's desk which no one could understand. I don't suppose that it is of the slightest importance, but I thought you might care to see it, so I brought it with me. It is here."

Holmes unfolded the paper carefully and smoothed it out upon his knee. He then very methodically examined it all over with his double lens.

"It is paper of native Indian manufacture," He remarked. "It has some time been pinned to a board. The diagram upon it appears to be a plan of a large building with numerous halls, corridors and passages. At one point it is a small cross done with red ink, and above it is '3.37 from left' in faded pencil writing. In the left-hand corner is a curious hieroglyphic lie four crosses in a line with their arms touching. Beside it is written, very rough and in coarse characters, 'The sign of the four – Johnathan Small, Mahomet Singh, Abdullah Khan, Dost Akabar.' No, I confess that I do not see how this bears upon the matter. Yet it is evidently a document of importance. It has been kept carefully in a pocketbook, for the one side is as clean as the other."

"It was in his pocketbook that we found it."

"Preserve it carefully, then, Miss Hale, for it may prove to be of use to us. I begin to suspect that this matter may turn out to be much deeper and more subtle than I supposed at first. I must reconsider my ideas."

He leaned back in the cab, andi oculd see by his drawn brow and his vacant eyes that he was thinking intently. Miss Hale and I chatted in an undertown about our present expedition and its possible outcome, but our companion mantained his impenetrable reserve until the end of our journey.

It was a April evening and not yet seven o' clock, but the day had been a dreary one, and a dense drizzly fog lay low upon the great city. Mud coloured clouds dropped sadly over the muddy streets. Down the Strand the lamps were bust misty splotches of diffused light which threw a feeble circular glimmer upon the slimy pavement. The yellow glare from the shop windows streamed out into the steamy, vaporous air and threw a murky, shifting radiance across the croweded thoroughfare.

There was, to my mind, something eerie and ghostlike in the endless procession of faces which flitted across the narrow bars of light –sad faces and glad, haggard and merry. Like all humankind, they flitted from the gloom into the light and so back into the gloom once more. I am not subject to impressions, but the dull, heavy evening, with the strange business upon which we were engaged, combined to make me a bit nervous.

I could see from Miss Hale's manner that she was suffering from the same feeling. olmes alone could rise to petty influences. He held his open notebook upon his knee, and from time ti time he jotted down figures and memoranda in the light of his pocket lantern.

At the lyceum Threatre the crowds were already thick at the side-entrances. In front of a continuous stream of handsoms and four-wheelers were rattling up, discharging their cargoes of shirtfronted men and bishawled, bidiamonded women. We had hardly reached the third pillar, which was our rendezvous, before a small, dark, brisk man in the dress of a coachman accosted us.

"Are you the parties who come with Miss Hale?" He asked.

"I am Miss Hale, and these two persons are my friends," She said.

He ben a pair of wonderfully penetrating and questioning eyes upon us.

"You will excuse me, miss," he said with a certain dogged manners, "but I was to as you two give me your word that neither of your companions is a police-officer."

"I give you my word on that," She answered.

He gave a shrill whistle, on which a street Arab led across a four-wheeler and opened the door. The man who had adressed us mounted to the vox, while we tok our places inside. We had hardly done so before the driver whipped up his horse, and we plungeda way at a furious pace through the foggy streets.

The situation was a curious oine. We were driving to an unknown place, on an unknown errand. Yet our invitaion was either a complete hoax –which was an inconceivable hypothesis –or else we had a good reason to thin that important issues might hang upon our journey. Miss Hale's demeanour was as resolute and collected as ever. At first I had osme idea as to the direction in which we were driving; but soon, what ith our pace, the fog and my own limited knowledge of London, I lost my bearings and knew nothing save that we seemed to be going a long way. Sherlock Holmes was never fault, however, and he muttered the names as the cab rattled through squares and in and out by tortuous by-streets.

"Rochester Row," he said. "Now vincent Square. Now we come out on the Vauxhall Bridge Road. We are making for the Surrey side apparently. Yes, I thought so. Now we are on the bridge. You can catch glimpes of the river."

We did indeed get a fleeting view of a stretch of the Thames, with the lamps shining upon the broad, silent water; but our cab dashed on and soon involved in labyrinth of streets upon the other side.

"Wordsworth Road," Holmes continued to say. "Priory Road. Lark Hall Lane. Stockwell Place. Robert Street. Cold Harbour Lane. Our quest does not appear to take us to very fashionable regions."

We had indeed reached a questionable and forbidding neighborhood. Long lines of dull brick houses were only relieved by a coarse glare and tawdry brilliancy of public houses a the corner. Then came rows of two-storied villas, each with a fronting of miniature garden, and then again interminable lines of new, staring brick buildings –the monster tentacles which the giant city was throwing out into the country. At last the cab drew up at the thrid house in a new terrance.

None of the other houses were inhabited and that at which we stopped was as dark as its neighbourghs, save for a single glimpmer in the kitchen window.

On our knocking, however, the door was instantly thrown open by a Hindoo servant, clad in a yellowe turban, white loose-fitting robes, and a yellow sash. There was something strangely incongruous in this Oriental figure framed in the commonplace doorway of a thrid-rate suburban dwelling house.

"The sahib awaits you," he said, and even as he spoke, tehre came a high, piping voice from some inner room.

"Show them in to me, _khitmutgar._" It said. "Show them straight in to me."


	7. Chapter Six: The BaldHeaded Man

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock Holmes.

Author's Notes: Miriam is such a drama queen, Amarantha is a real meanie lol. Well i hope you guys liked this chapter. This one was mostly done to carifly some stuff about the plot-line.  
And i totally imagine Thaddeus Sholto as that guy from ER the red-headed one, yeah that one.

Please rate&review even if its anonymous :D

* * *

We followed the Indian down a sordid and common passage, ill-lit and worse furnished, until he came to a door upon the right, which he threw open. A blaze of yellow light streamed out upon us, and in the centre of the glare there stood a small man with a very high head, a bristle of red hair all around the fringe of it, and a bald, shinning scalp which shot ut from among it like a mountain peak from fir-trees.

He writhed his hands together as he stood and his features were in perpetual jerk –now smiling, now scowling, but never for an instant in repose. Nature had given hima pendulous lip, and a too visible line of yellow and irregular teeth, which he strove to conceal by constantly passing his hand over the lower part of his face. In spite of his obstrusive baldness he gave the impression of youth. In fact he had just turned his thirtieth year.

"Your servant, Miss Hale," He kept repeating in a thin, high voice. "Your servant, gentleman, lady. Pray step into my little sanctum. A small place, miss, but furnished to my own liking. An oasis of art in the howling desert of South London."

We were all astonished by the appearance of the apartment into which he invited us. I that sorry house it looked as out of the place as a diamond of the firstwater in a setting of brass. The richest and glossiest of curtains and tapestries draped the walls, looped back here and there to expose some richly mounted painting or Oriental vase. The carpet was of amber and black, so soft and so thick that the foot sank pleasantly into it, as into a bed of moss. Two great tiger-skins thrown athwart it increased rge suggestion of Eastern luxury, as did a huge hookah which stood upon a mat in the corner.A lamp in the fashion of a silver dove was hung from an almost invisible golden wire in the centre of the room. As it burned it filled the air with a subtle and aromatic odour.

"Mr. Thaddeus Sholto," said the little man, still jerking and smiling. "That' is my name. You are Miss Hale, of course. And these people-"

"This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and she is Miss Amarantha Devereaux."

"Deveraux?!" He cried, much excited. "From the London Deveraux? Why, you come from one of the most famous medical/army families in the whole children from this family are breed to be talented. Have you your stethoscope?"

"I don't really-"

"Would you have the kindness? I have grave doubts about my mitral valve, if yoy would be so very good. The aortic I may rely upon, but I should value your opinion upon the mitral."

I sighed as I pressed my ear to his chest, as requested, since I didn't have a stethoscope, but was unable to find anything amiss, save, indeed that he was in an ecstacy of fear, for he shivered from head to foot.

"It appears to be normal," I said with a sigh. "You have no cause for uneasiness."

He turned away from me and to Miss Hale. "You will excuse my anxiety, Miss Hale," he remarked airily. "I am a great sufferer, and I have long had suspicions as to that valve. I am delighted to hear that they were unwarranted. Had you father, Miss Hale, refrained from throwing a strain upon his heart, he might have been alive now

I could have struck the man across the face, how could he be so dense? & I was about to when a strong hand grabbed my wrist, stopping the blow in mid-air. I felt chills run down my spine as I looked up at Sherlock Holmes, his hand still grabbing my wrist firmly, as he glanced at a cringing Thaddeus Sholto.

"There's no need, Amarantha," Holmes turned to face me, an amused expression on his face as he let go of my hand.

"Ha, my you have the characteristic temper of the Deveraux."

"I'm sorry." I apologized, mainly to Sherlock. My hand was still tingling from his grip.

Miss Hale sat down, and her face grew white to the lips.

"I knew in my heart that he was dead." She said.

"I can give you every information," Sholto said, as he stepped a few spaced away from me. "and, what is more, I can do you justice; and I will, too, whatever Brother Bartholomew may say. I am so glad to have your friends here," He looked wearily at me. "Not only to escort you but to also witness to what I am about to do and say. The three of us can show a bold front to BrotherBartholomew. But let us have no outsiders –no police or officials. We can settle everything satisfactorily among ourselves without any interference. Nothing would annow Brother Bartholomew more than any publicity."

He sat down upon a low sette and blinked at us inquiringly with his weak, watery blue eyes.

"For my part," said Holmes. "Whatever you may choose to say will go not go outside this room."

I nodded my head to show agreement.

"That is well! That is well!" he said. "May I offer you a glass of Chianti, Miss Hale? Or of Tokay? I keep no other wines. Shall I open a flask? No? Well, then, I trust that you have no objection to tobacco-smoke, to the balsamic odour of the Eastern tobacco. I am a little nervous, and I find my hookah and invaluable sedative."

He applied a taper to the great bowl, and the smoke bubbled merrily through the rose-water. We sat all three in a semicircle, with our heads advanced and our chins upon our hands, while the strange, jerky little fellow, with his high, shinning head, puffed uneasily in the centre.

"When I first determined to make this communication to you," he said, "I might have given you my address; but I feared that you might disregard my request and bring unpleasant people with you. I took the liberty, therefore, of making an appointment in such a way that my man Williams might be able to see you first. I have complete confidence in his discretion, and he had orders, if he were dissatisfied, to proceed no further in the matter. You will excuse there precautions, but I am a man of somehwat retiring, and I might even say refined, tastes, and there is nothing more unaesthetic than a policeman. I have a natural shirnking from all forms or rough materialism. I seldom come I contact with the rough crowd. I live, as you see, with some little atmpsphere of elegance around me. May I call myself the patron of the arts. It is my weakness. The landscape is a genuine Corot and though a connoisseur might perhaps threw a doubt upon that Salvator Rosa, there cannot be the least question about the Bouguereau. I am partial to the modern French school."

"You will excuse me, ," Miriam said. "but I am here at your request to learn something which you desire to tell me. It is very late, andi should desire the interview to be as short as possible."

"At the best it must take some time." He answered. "For we shall certainly have to go to Norwood and see Brother Bartholomew. We shall all go and try if we can get the better of Brother Bartholomew. He is very with me for taking the course which has seemed right to me. I had quite high words with him last night. You cannot imagine what a terrible fellow he is when he is angry."

"If we are to go to Norwood, it would perhaps be as well to start at once." I ventured to remark, as I focused my blue eyes back at Miriam.

Sholto laughed till his ears were quite red.

"That would hardly do," he cried. "I don't kno what he would say if I brought you in that sudden way. No, I must prepare you by showing you how we all stand to each other. In the first place, I must tell ou that there are several points in the story of which I myself am ignorant. I can only lay the facts before you as far as I know myself."

"My father was, as you may have guessed, Major John Sholto, once of the Indian Army. He retired some eleven years ago and came to live at Pondicherry Lodge in Upper Noorwood. He had prospered in India and brought back with him a considerable sum of money, a large collection of valuable curiosities, and a staff of native servants. With these advantages he bought himself a house, and lived in great luxury. Twin brother Bartholomew and I were the only children.

"I very well remember the sensation which was caused by the of Captain Hale. We read the details in the papers, and knowing that he had been a friend of our father's we discussed the case freely in his presence. He used to join in our speculations as to what could have happened. Never for an instant did we suspect that he had the whole secret hidden in his own breast, that of all men he alone knew the fate of Arthur Hale.

"We did know, however, that some mustery, some mystery, some positive danger, overhung our father. he was very fearful of going out alone, and he always employed two prize-fighters to act as porters at Pondicherry Lodge. Williams, who drove you tonight, was one of them. Ge was ibce kufgrweight champion of England. Our father would never tell us what it was he feared, but he had a most marked aversion to men with wooden legs. On one occasion he actually fired his revolver at a wooden-legged man, who proved to be a harmless tradesman canvassing for orders. We had to pay a large sum to hush the matter up. My brother and I used to think this was a mere whim of my father's, but events since led us to change our opinion.

"Early in 1882 my father received a letter from India which was a great shock to him. He nearly fainted at the breakfastable when he opened it, and from that day he sickened to his death. What was the letter? We could never discover, but I could see as he held it that it was short and written in a scrawling hand. He had suffered from years from an enlarged spleen, but he now became rapidly worse, and towards the end of April we were informed that he was beyond all hope, and that he wished to make a last communication to us.

"We we entered his room he was propped up with pillows and breathing heavily. He besought us to lock the door and to come upon either side of the bed. Then grasping our hands he made a remarkable statement to us in a voice which was broken as much by emotion as by pain. I shall try to give it to you in his own very words.

" 'I have only one thing.' he said. 'which weighs upon m mind at this supreme moment. It is my treatment of poor Hale's orphan. The cursed greed which has been my besetring sin through life has witheld from her the treausure, half at least which should have been hers. And yet I have made no use of it myself, so blind and foolish a thing is avarice. The mere feeling of possesssion has been so dear to me that I could not bear to share it with another. See that chaplet tipped with pears inside the quinine-bottle. Even that I could not bear to part with, although I had got it out with the design of sending it to her. You, my sons, will giverhear a fare share of the Agra Treasure. But send her nothing –not even the chaplet –until I am gone. After all, men have been as bad as this and have recovered.

" 'I will tell you how Hale died' he continued. 'He had suffered for years from a weak heart, but he concelead it from everyone. I alone knew it. When in India, he and I, through a remarkable chain of circumstance came into possession of a considerable treasure. I brought it over to England, and one the night of Hale's arrival he came straight over her to claim his share. He walked over from the station and was admitted by my faithful old La Chowdar, who is now dead. Hale and I had a difference of opinion as to the division of the treasure, and we came to heated words. Hale had sprung out of his chair in a paroxysm of anger, when he suddenly pressed his hand to his side, his face turned a dusky hew, and he fell backwards, cutting his head against the corner of the treasure-chest. When I stooped over him I found, to my horror, that he was dead.

" 'For a long time he sat half-distracted, wondering what I should do. My first impulse was, of course, to call for assistance; but I could not but recogize that there was every chance that I would be accused of his murder. His death at the momet of a quarrel, and the gash in his head, would be black agaist me. Again, and official inquiry could not be made without bringing some facts about the treasure, which I was particularly anxious to keep secret. He had told me that no soul upon earth knew where he had gone. There seemed to be o necessity why any sould should ever know.

" 'I was still pondering over thematter, when, looking up. I saw my servat, Lal Chowdar, in the doorway. He stole in and bolted the door behind him. "Do not fear, sahib," he said; "no oe need to know that you have killed him. Let us hide him away, and who is the wiser?" "I did not kill him," I said. Lal Chowdar shook his head and smiled. "I heard it all, sahib," said he; "I hear you quarrel, and I heard the blow. But my lips are sealed. All are sleep in the house. Let us put him away together." That was enough to decide me. If my ow servant could not believe my innocence, how could I hope to make it good before twelve foolish tradesmen in a jury-box? Lal Chowdar and I disposed of the body that night, and within a few days the London papers were full of the mysterious disappearance of Captain Hale. You will see from what I say that I can hardly be blamed in the matter. My fault lies in the fact that we concealed not only the body but also the treasure and that I have clung to Hale's share as well as to my own. I wish you, therefore, to make restitution. Put you ears down to my mouth. The treasure is hidden in ---"

"At this instant a horrible change came over his expression; his eyes stared widly, his jaw dropped, and he yelled in a voice which I can never forget, 'Keep him out! For Christ's sake keep him out!' We both stared round at the window behind us upon which his gazed was fixed. A face was looking in at us out of the darkness. We could see the whitening nose were it was pressed against the glass. It was a bearded, hairy face, with wild cruel eyes and an expression of concentrated malevolence. My brother and I rushed towards the window, but the man was gone. When we returned to my father his head had dropped and his pulse had ceased to beat.

"We searched the garden that night but found no sign of the intruder save that just under the window a single footmark was visible in the flower-bed. But for that once trace, we migt have thought that our imagination had conjured up that wild, fierce face. We soon, however, had another rand a more striking proof that there were secrer agencies at work all around us. The window of my father's room was found open in the morning, his cupboards and boxed had been rifled, and upon his chest was fixed a torn piece of paper with the words 'The sign of the four' scrawled across it. What the phrase meant or who our secret visitor may have been, we never knew. As far as we can judge, none of my father's property had been actually stolen, though everything had been turned out. My brother and I naturally associated this peculiar incident with the fear that haunted my father during is life, but it is still a complete mystery to us."

The little man stopped to relight his hookah and puffed thoughtfully for a few moments. We had all sat absorbed, listening to his extraordinary narrative. At the short account of her father's death Miss Hale had turned deadly white, and for a moment I hoped she would faint. She rallied, however, on drinking a glass of water which she quietly poured out form Venetian carafe upon the side table.

Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair with an abstracted expression and the lids drawn low over his glittering eyes. As I glanced at him I could not but think how on that very day he had complained bitterly of the commonplaceness of life.  
Here at least was a problem which would tax his sagacity to the utmost. Sholto looked from one to another of us with and obvious pride at the effect which his story had produced and then continued between the puffs of his overgrown pipe.

"My brother and I," said Sholto. "Were, as you may imagine, much excited as to the treasure which my father had spoken of. For weeks and for months we dug and delved in every part of the garden without discovering its whereabouts. It was maddening to think that the hiding place was on his very lips at the moment he died. We could judge from the splendour of the missing riches by the chaplet which he had taken out. Over this chaplet my brother Bartholomew and I had some little discussion. The pears were evidently of great value, and he was averse to part with them, for, between friends, my brother was himself a little inclined to my father's fault. He thought, too, hat if we parted with the chaplet it might give rise to gossip and finally bring us to trouble. It was all that I could do to persuade him to let me find out about Miss Hale's address and send her a detached pearl at fixed intervals so that atleast she might never feel destitute."

"It was a kindly thought," said Miriam earnestly. "It was extremely good of you."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly.

"We were your trustees," he said. "that was the view wich I took of it, though brother Bartholomew could not altogether see it in that light. We had plenty of money ourselves. I desired no more. Besides, it would have been such a bad taste to have treated a young lady in such a scurvy fashion. '_Le mauvais goût mène au crime'._ The French have a very neat way of putting these things. Our difference of opinion on this subject went so far that I thought it best to set up rooms for myself; so I left Pondicherry Lodge, taking the old _khitmutgar_ and Williams with me. Yesterday, however, I learned that an event of extreme importance had occurred. The treasure had been discovered. I instantly communicated with Miss Hale, and it only reamains for us to drive out to Norwood and demand our share. I explained my views last night to Brother Bartholomew, so we shall be expected, if not welcomes, visitors."

Mr. Thaddeus Sholto ceased and sat twitching on his luxurious settee. We all remained silent, with our thoughts upon the new development which the mysterious business had taken. Holmes was the first to spring to his feet.

"You have done well, sir, from first to last," he said. "It is possible that we may be able to make you some small return by throwing some light upon that which is still dark to you. But, as Miss Hale remarked just now, it is late, and we had best put the matter through without delay."

Our new acquaintance very deliberately coiled up the tube of his hookah and produced from behind a curtain a vey long befrogged topcoat with astrakhan collar and cuffs. This he butoned tightly up in spite of the extreme closeness of the night and finished his attire by putting on a rabbit-skin cap with hanging lappets which covered the ears, so that no part of him was visible save his mobile and peaky face.

"My health is somewhat fragile," he remarked as he led the way down the passage. "I am compeled to be a valetudinarian."

Our cab was awaiting outside, and our programme was evidently prearranged, for the driver started off at once at a rapid pace. Thaddeus Sholto talked incessantly in a voice wich rose high above the rattle of the wheels.

"Bartholomew is a clever fellow," he continued saying. "How do you think he found out where the treasure was? He had come to the conlcusion that it was somewhere indoors, so he worked out all the cubic space of the house and made measurements every where so that not one inch should be unaccounted for. Among other things, he found that the height of the building was seventy-four feet, but adding together the heights of all the separate rooms and making every allowabce for the space between, wich he ascertained by borings, he could not bring the total to more than seventy feet. There were four feet unacounted for. These could only be at the top of the building. He knocked a hole, therefore, sure enough, he came ypon another little garret above it, which had been sealed up and was known to no one. In the centre stood the treasure-chest resting upon two rafters. He lowered it through the hole, and there it lies. He computes the value of the jewels at not less than half a million sterling."

At the mention of this gigantic sum we all stared at once another open-eyed. Miss Hale, could we secure her rights, would change from a needy governess to the richest heiress in England. Surely iy was the place of a loyal friend to rejoice at such news, but me being neither loyal nor her friend my heart turned as heavy as lead within me.

I stammered out some few halting words of congratulation and then sat downcast, with my head drooped over Sherlock's shoulder, which I am sure caught him offguard, deaf to the babble of our new acquaintance. He was cleary a confirmed hypochondriack, and I was dreamily conscious that he was pouring forth interminable trains of symptoms, and imploring information as to the composition and action oof innumerable quack nosetrums, some of which he bore about in a leather case in his pocket.

I trust that he may not remember any of the answers which I gave him that night. But Holmes declared that he overheard me caution him against thegreat danger of taking more than two drops of castor-oil, while I recommended strychnine in large doses as a sedative. However that may be, I was certainly relieved when our cab pulled up with a jerk and the coachman sprang down to open the door.

"This, Misses, is Pondicherry Lodge," Mr Sholto said as he handed us out.


	8. Chapter Seven: Pondicherry Lodge Tragedy

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Though Amarantha Devereaux and Miss Miriam Hale belong to me; if you wanna use their characters contact me first.

Author's Notes: _Hello dear readers! So here is were the true plot begins. A murder scene! Also Amarantha starts to grow some feelings towards Sherlock. Poor Sherlock has no idea at all, he just stands there in shock most of the time. In another note, i'd like to dedicate this chapter to poisonlily, BrokenBallet and DifferentButNotOkay for messaging me! Thanks! Messages really do cheer my up!:D_

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when we reached this final stage of our night's adventures. We had left the damp fog of the great city behind us, and the night was fairly fine. A warm wind blew from the westward, and heavy clouds moved slowly across the sky, with half a moon peeping occasionally through the rifts.  
It was clear enough to see for some distance, but Thaddeus Sholto took down one of the side lamps from the carriage to give us a better light upon our way.

Pondicherry Lodge stood in its own grounds and was girt round with a very high stone wall topped with broken glass. A single narrow iron-clamped door formed the only means of entrance. On this our guide knocked with a peculiar postman-like rat-tat.

"Who is there?" cried a gruff voice from within.

"It is me, McMurdo. You surely know my knock by this time."

There was a grumbling sound and a clanking and jarring of keys. The door swung heavily back, and a short, deep-chested man stood in the opening, with the yellow light of the lantern shining upon his protruded face and twinkling, distrustful eyes.

"That you, Mr. Thaddeus? But who are the others? I had no orders about them from the master."

"No, McMurdo? You surprise me! I told my brother last night that I should bring some friends."

"He hain't been out o' his rooms today, Mr. Thaddeus, and I have no orders. You know very well that I must stick to regulations. I can let you in, but your friends they must just stop where they are."

This was an unexpected obstacle. Thaddeus Sholto looked about him in a perplexed and helpless manner.

"This is too bad of you, McMurdo!" he said. "If I guarantee them, it is enough for you. There are this young ladies too. They cannot wait on the public road at thus hour."

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus." said the porter inexorably. "Folk may be friends o' yours, and yet no friend o' the master's. He pays me well to do my duty, and my duty I'll do. I don't know none o' your friends."

"Oh, yes you do, McMurdo." Sherlock Holmes smirked genially. "I don't think you can have forgotten me. Don't you remember that amateur who fought three rounds with you at the Alison's room on the night of your benefit four years back?"

"Not Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" roared the prize-fighter. "God's truth! How could I have mistook you? If instead o' stadin' there so quiet you had just stepped up and given me that cross-hit of yours under the jaw, I'd ha' known you without a question. Ah, you're one that has wasted your gifts, you have! You might have aimed high, if you had joined the fancy."

"You see, Amarantha, if all else fails me, I have still one of the scientific professions open to me." said Holmes, laughing. "Our friend won't keep us out in the cold now, I am sure?"

"In you come, sir, in come –you and your friends." He answered. "May I say, what a lovely lady you've gotten yourself." He winked towards me.

I looked back at Holmes, who couldn't stop watching McMurdo with a confused expression on his face as I moved my arms frantically in front of me. "N-no, he –me, we-"

"Very sorry, Mr. Thaddeus, but orders are very strict. Had to be certain of your friends before I let them in." McMurdo turned towards Sholto completely ignoring me again.

I sighed and rolled my eyes in defeat.

Inside, a gravel path wound through desolate grounds to a huge clump if a house, square and prosaic, all plunged in shadow save where a moonbeam struck once corner and glimmered in a garret window. The vast size of the building, with its gloom and deathly silence, struck a chill to the heart. Even Thaddeus Sholto seemed ill at ease, and the lantern quivered and rattled in his hand.

"I cannot understand it," he said. "There must be some mistake. I distinctly told Bartholomew that we should be here, and yet there is no light in his window. I do not know what to make of it."

"Does he always guard the premises in this way?" asked Holmes.

"Yes; he has followed my father's custom. He was the favorite son you know, and I sometimes think that my father may have told him more than he ever told me. That is Bartholomew's window up there where the moonshine strikes. It is quite bright, but there is no light from within, I think."

"None," I said. "But I see the glint of a light in that little window beside the door."

"Ah, that is the housekeeper's room. That is where old Mrs. Bernstone sits. She can tell us all about it. But perhaps you would not mind waiting here for a minute or two, for if we all go in together, and she has no word of our coming, she may be alarmed. But, hush! what is that?"

He held up the lantern, and his hand shook until the circles of light flickered and wavered all around us. I seized Holmes wrist, and we all stood, with thumping hearts, straining our ears. From the great black house there sounded though the silent night the saddest and most pitiful of sounds –the shrill, broken whimpering, of a frightened woman.

"It is Mrs. Bernstone," Sholto said. "She is the only woman in the house. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment."

He hurried for the door and knocked in his peculiar way. We could see a tall old woman admit him and sway with pleasure at the very sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Thaddeus, sir, I am so glad you have come! I am so glad you have come, Mr. Thaddeus, sir!"

We heard her reiterate rejoicings until the door was closed round and peered keenly a the house and at the great rubbish heaps which cumbered the grounds. Sherlock Holmes and I stood together, and my hand was in his. A wondrous subtle thing is love, for here were we two, between whom no word or even look of affection had ever passed (apart from the hug), and yet now in an hour of trouble our hands instinctively sought for each other. So we stood hand in hand, and there was peace in my heart for all the dark things that surrounded us.

"What a strange place!" Miriam said, looking around.

I nodded my head in agreement. "It looks as though all the moles in England had been let loose here. I have seem something of the sort on the side of a hill near Ballart, where the prospectors had been at work."

"And from the same cause," inquired Holmes. "There are the traces of the treasure-seekers. You must remember that they were six years looking for it. No wonder the grounds look like a gravel-pit."

At that moment the door of the house burst open, and Thaddeus Sholto came running out, with his hands thrown forward and terror in his eyes.

"There is something amiss with Bartholomew!" he cried. "I am frightened! My nerves cannot stand it."

He was, indeed, half blubbering with fear, and his twitching, feeble face, peeping out from the great astrakhan collar had the helpless, appealing expression of a terrified child.

"Come into the house," Holmes said in his crisp, firm way.

"Yes, do!" pleaded Sholto. "I really do not feel equal to giving directions."

Sherlock dragged me behind them into the housekeeper's room, which stood upon the left-hand side of the passage. The old woman was pacing up and down with a scared look and restless, picking fingers but the sigh of Miss Hale appeared to have a soothing effect upon her.

"God bless your sweet, calm face!" she cried with a hysterical sob. I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "It does me good to see you. Oh, but I have been sorely tried this day!"

Miriam patted her thin, work-worn hand and murmured some few words of kindly, womanly comfort which brought the colour back into her bloodless cheeks.

"Master has locked himself in and will not answer me," she explained. "All day I have waited to her from him, for he often likes to be alone; but and hour ago I feared that something was amiss, so I went up and peeped through the keyhole. You must go up, Mr. Thaddeus –you must go up and look for yourself. I have seen Mr. Bartholomew Sholto in joy and in sorrow for ten long years, but I never saw him with such a face on him as that."

I loosed my hand from Sherlock's grip as he took the lamp and led the way, for Thaddeus teeth were chattering. He was so shaken that I had to pass my hand under his arm as we went up the stairs, for his knees were trembling under him.

Twice as we ascended, Holmes whipped his lens out of his pocket and carefully examined marks which appear to me some mere shapeless smudges of dust icon the cocoanut-matting which served as a stair-carpet. He walked slowly from step to step, holding the lamp low, and shooting keen glances to the right and left. Miss Miriam had remained behind with the frightened housekeeper, much to her dislike.

The third flight of stairs ended in a straight passage of some length, with a great picture in Indian tapestry upon the right of it and three doors upon the right of it and three doors upon the left. Holmes advanced along it in the same slow and methodical way, while we kept close at his heels, with our long black shadows streaming backward down the corridor.

The third door was that which we were seeking. Holmes knocked without receiving and answer, and then tried to turn the handle and force it open. However, it was closed on the inside by a broad and powerful bolt, as we could see when we set our lamp against it. The key being turned, the whole not entirely closed. Sherlock Holmes bent down to it and instantly rose again with a shark in taking of the breath.

"There is something devilish in this, Amarantha." he said, more moved than I had ever seen him before. "What do you make of it?"

I peeked through the hole and recoiled in horror. Moonlight was streaming in the room, and it was bright and vague and shifty radiance. Looking straight at me and suspended, as it were, in the air, for all beneath was in shadow, there hung a face –the very face of our companion Thaddeus.

There was the same high, shining head, the same circular bristle of red hair, and the same bloodless countenance. The features were set, however, in a horrible smile, a fixed and unnatural grin, which in that still and moonlit room was more than jarring to the nerves than any scowl or contortion.

So like was the face to that of our little friend that I looked around at him to make sure he was indeed with us. Then I recalled to mind that he had mentioned to us that he and his brother were twins.

"That is terrible!" I said to Holmes. "What should we do about it?"

"The door must come down," he answered, and springing against it, he put all his weight upon the lock.

It creaked and groaned but did not yield. Together we flung ourselves upon it once more, and this time it gave way with a sudden snap, and we found ourselves within Bartholomew Sholto's chamber.

It appeared to have been fitted up as a chemical laboratory. A double line of glass-stopper bottles was drawn up upon the wall opposite the door, and the table was littered over with Bunsen burners, test-tubes, and retorts. In the corners stood carboys of acid in wicker baskets.

One of these appeared to leak or to have been broken, for a stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled out from it, and the air was heavy with a peculiarly pungent, tarlike odour. A set of steps stood at one side of the room in the midst of a little of lath and plaster, and above them there was an opening in the ceiling large enough for a man to pass through. At the foot of the step a long coil of rope was thrown carelessly together.

By the table in a wooden armchair them aster of the house was seated all in a heap, his head sunk upon his left shoulder and that ghastly, inscrutable smile upon his face. he was stiff and cold and had clearly been dead for many hours.  
It seemed to me that not only his features but all his limbs were twisted and turned in the most fantastic fashion. By his hand upon the table there lay a peculiar instrument –a brown, close grained stick, with a stone head like a hammer, rudely lashed on with coarse twine. Beside it was a torn sheet of note-paper with some words scrawled upon it.

Holmes glanced at it and then handed it to me.

"You see," he said with a significant raising of the eyebrows.

In the light of the lantern I read with a thrill of horror. "The sign of the four."  
"In God's name, what does it all mean?" I asked in a shrilly voice.

"It means murder," Holmes said with a small smirk as he stooped over the dead man. "Ah! I expect it. Look here!"

He pointed towards what looked like a long dark thorn stuck in the skin just above the ear.

"Wow Sherlock, it's nothing but a thorn." I said as I gave him a confused look.

"It is a thorn. You may pick it out. But be careful, for it is poisoned."

I took it up between my finger and thumb. It came away from the skin so readily that hardly any mark was left behind. One tiny speck of blood showered where the puncture has been.

"This is an absolute mystery to me," I said with a sigh. "It grows darker instead of clearer."

"On the contrary," he answered, "It clears every instant. I only require a few more missing links to have an entirely connected case."

We had almost forgotten our companion's presence since we entered the chamber. He was still standing on the doorway, the very picture of terror, wringing his hands and moaning to himself. Suddenly, he broke out into a sharp, querulous cry.

"The treasure is gone!" he cried. "They have robbed him of the treasure! There is the hole through which we lowered it. I helped him do it! I was the last person who saw him! I left him here last night, and I heard him lock the door as I came downstairs."

"At what time was that?"

"It was ten o' clock. And now he is dead, and the police will be called in, and I shall be suspected of having had a hand in it. Oh yes, I am sure, I shall. But you don't think so? Surely you don't think that it was me? Is it likely that I would have brought you here if it were me? Oh dear! oh dear! I am gonna go mad!"

He jerked his arms and stamped his feet in a kind of convulsive frenzy.

"You have no reason to fear, Mr. Sholto," I said kindly, placing my hand upon his shoulder, in a attempt to calm him down.

"No reason? No reason! I'm going to go to jail for I crime I didn't commit! How can you say there's no reason?!" Sholto sneered as he brushed my hand away.

"Take my advice Mr. Sholto." Holmes interjected with an amused look upon his face. "Drive down to the station and report the matter to the police. Offer to assist them in every way. We shall wait here until your return."

The little man obeyed in a half-stupefied fashion, and we heard him stumbling down the stairs into the dark.


	9. Chapter Eight: Upper Room Confessionals

Disclaimer: Sadly i do not own Sherlock Holmes :/

Author Notes: _Aloha there! First of all I am truly sorry for not updating in quite some time. I was busy with art school projects and i just wasn't able to find the necessary time to write. Well this is a truly interesting chapter, though it's kinda short; sorry for that. Next chapter is going to be really long anyway. Oh and i left you with a cliffhanger again, haha evil me. Well this chapter is dedicated for: poisonlily and Selenalunarox check her Sherlock Holmes story! Is pretty awesome too:D  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

"Now Amarantha," said Holmes, rubbing his hands, "we have half and hour to ourselves. Let us make good use of it. My case is, as I have told you, almost complete; but we must nor err on the side of overconfidence. Simple as the case seems now, there may be something deeper underlying it."

"You got to be kidding me, Sherlock." I stated in shock. "This seems to be everything _but_ simple."

"It surely is," he said with something of the air of a clinical professor expounding to his class. "Just sit in the corner there, so that you may not complicate matters. "

"Can't I help at all? There's hardly anything to do here."

Holmes glanced back at me and sighed, speaking slowly as he often did while deep in thought.

"I'm sorry, and I don't mean to be rude, but you distract me."

"Distract you? I've barely said a word, Holmes!" I exclaimed. I swear he was the only one who made me annoyed like this. Did he have to be so blunt?

"Yes. However, in light my infatuation with you may be. I am really hoping that you presence here isn't a distraction for the investigation."

I was about to complain when I suddenly paused. Did he just say what I thought he said? My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I was at complete loss of words. He was staring back at me, my expression mirrowed on his face.

Suddenly I found myself blushing deep red. I was sure he was just as shocked by his own words as I was.

"Now to work." he said avoiding my gaze and looking down at the dead man again. "In the first place, how did these folk come and how did they go? The door was not been opened since last night. How about the window?"

He carried the lamp across to it, muttering is observations aloud the whole while but addressing them to himself rather than to me. "Window is snibbed on the inner side. Frame-work is solid. No hinges at the side. Let us open it. No water-pipe near. Roof quite out of reach. Yet a man has mounted by the window. It rained a little last night. Here is the print of a foot in mould upon the sill. And there is a circular muddy mark, and here again upon the floor, and there agagin by the table. See here, Amarantha! This is really a very pretty demonstration."

"Oh, are you asking my opinion now?" I sneered as I placed my hand in my chest, faking shock.

He rolled his eyes at me. "Can you please be a little cooperative? You were right, your help is pretty much invaluable."

I grinned as I looked at the well defined muddy discs.

"Are you blind Sherlock? That's not a footmark." I said.

"It is something much more valuable to us. It is the impression of a wooden stump. You see here on the sill is the bootmark, a heavy boot with a broad metal heel, and besides it it is the meark of the timber-toe."

"It is the wooden-legged man."

"Quite so. But there has been someone else –a very able and efficient ally. Could you scare that wall, Amarantha?"

I looked out of the open window. The moon still sone brightly on that angle of the house. We were a good sixty feet from the ground, and, look were I would, I could see no foothold, nor as much as a crevice in the brickwall.

"It is absolutely impossible." I answered.

"Without aid it I so. But suppose you had a friend up here who lowered tou this good stout rope which I see in the corner, securing one end of it to this great hook in he wall. Then, I think, if you were an active man, you might swarm up wooden leg and all. You would depart, of course, in the same fashion, and yu ally would draw up the rope, untie it from the hook, shut the window, snib it on the inside, and get away in the way that he originally came. As a minor point it may be noted." he continued inspecting the rope. "That our wooden legged friend, though a fair climber, was not a professional sailor. His hands were far from tough. My lens dicloses more than one bloodmarkk, especially towards the end of the rope, from which I gather that he slipped down with such velocity that he took the skin off his hands."

"This is all very well," I said. "But the things becomes more unintelligible than ever. How about this mysterious ally? How did he came into the room?"

"Yes, the ally!" Holmes repeated pensively. "There are features of interest about this ally. He lifts the case from the regions of he commonplace. I fancy that this ally breaks fresh grounds in the annals of crime in this country –though parallel cases suggest themselves from India and, in my memory serves me, from Senegambia."

"How did he came then?" I reiterated with a sarcastic smile. "The door is locked; the window is inaccecible and I really doubt he was a magical fairie. So I'm guessing maybe it was through the chimney?"

"The grate is too small." he asnwered. "I had already considered that a possibility."

"How then?" I persisted.

"You will not apply my precept." he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, _however improbable, _must be the truth? We know that he did not come through the door, the window or the chimney. We also know that he could not have been concealed in the room as there is no concelment available. When, then, did he come?"

"He came through the hole in the roof!" I cried exicetedly clapping my hands together.

"Of course he did. He must have done so. If you will have the kindness to hold the lamp for me, we shall now extend our researches to the room above –the secret room in which the treasure was found."

He mounted his steps, and, seizing a rafter with either hand, he swung himself up into the garret. Then, lying on his face, he reached down for te kamp and held it while I followed him.


	10. Chapter Nine: Demonstration & Jones

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes D:

Author's Notes: _Hello readers! I would like to apologize again for not uploading any chapters in some time. Sadly i'll have to keep this story in hiatus for about a week or less since i'm really busy with school work and i have next to no time to update at all. Sorry for the inconveniencies. So here is where the story starts to get interesting. We see Sherlock's and Amarantha inquiritive(sp) selves? lol and we also meet a new character detective Athelney Jones.  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The chamber in which we found ourselves was about ten feet one way and six the other. The floor was formed by the rafters, with thin lath and plaster between, so that in walking one had to step from beam to beam. The roof ran up to an apex and was evidently the inner shell of the true roof of he house. There was no furniture of any sort, and the accumulated dust of years lay thick upon the floor.

"Here you are, you see," said Sherlock Holmes, putting his hand against he slopping wall. "This is a trapdoor which leads out on to the roof. I can press it back, and here is the roof itself, sloping at a gentle angle."

I crossed my arms and looked at him with an amused grin. "Oh so this then is the way by which Number One entered. Let us see if we can find some other traces of his individuality?"

He held down the lamp to the floor, and as he did so I saw for a second time that night, a startled, surprised look come over his face. For myself I followed his gaze, my skin was cold under my clothes. The floor was covered thickly with the prints of a naked foot –clear, well-defined, perfectly formed, but scared half the size of those of an ordinary man.

"Holmes," I said in a whisper. "a child has done this horrid thing."

He had recovered his self-possession in an instant.

"I was staggered for a moment," he said, "but the thing is quite natural. My memory failed me, or I should have been able to foretell it. There is nothing more to be learned here. Let us go down."

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked eagerly when we had regained the lower room once more.

"My dear Amarantha, try a little analysis for yourself." he answered with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results."

"I cannot think of anything which will cover the facts." I answered rolling my blue eyes.

"It will be clear to you soon" he said, in an offhand way. "I think that there is nothing else of importance here, but I will look."

He whipped out his lens and a tape measure and hurried about the room on his knees, measuring, comparing, examining, with his nose a few inches from the planks and his eyes gleaming.

So swift, silent, and furtive were his movements, like those of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent, that I could not but think what a terrible criminal he would have made had he turned his energy and sagacity against the law instead of exerting them in its defense.

As he hunted about, gee kept muttering to himself, and finally he broke out into a loud laugh of delight.

"We are certainly in luck," he said. "We ought to have very little trouble now. Number One as you put it, has had the misfortunes to thread in the creosote. You can see the outline of the edge of his small foot here at the side of this evil-smelling mess. The cardboard has been cracked you see, and the stuff has leaked out."

"What then?" I asked as I sat down in a nearby chair, tired from standing up already.

"Why, we have got him, that's all." he said. "I know a dog that would follow that scent to the world's end. If a pack can track a trailed herring across a shire, how far can a specially trained hound follow so pungent smell as this? It sounds like a sum in the rule of three. The answer should give us the –But hello! here are the accredited representatives of the law."

Heavy steps and the clamor of loud voices were audible from below, and the hall door shut with a loud crash.

"Before they come," said Holmes inching towards me. "Just put you hand here on this poor fellow's arm, and here on his leg. What do you feel?"

"The muscles are as hard as a board." I answered.

"Quite so. They are in a state of extreme contraction, far exceeding the usual rigor mortis. Coupled with this distortion of the face, this Hippocratic smile, or 'rises sardonicus' as the old writers called it, what a conclusion would it suggest to your mind?"

"Death from some powerful vegetable alkaloid." I answered rubbing my chin pensively. "some strychnine-like substance which would produce tetanus."

"That was the idea which occurred to me the instant I saw the drawn muscles of the face. On getting into the room I at once looked for the means by which the poison had entered the system. As you saw, I discovered a thorn which had been driven or shot with no great force into the scalp. You observe that the part struck was that which would be turned towards the hole in the ceiling if the man were erect in his chair. Now examine this thorn."

I took it up gingerly and held it in the light of the lanterns. It was long, sharp and black, with a glazed look near the point as though some gummy substance has dried upon it. The blunt end had been trimmed and rounded off with a knife.

"Is that an English thorn?" he asked.

"No, it certainly is not."

"With all these data you should be able to draw some just inference. But here are the regulars, so the auxiliary forces may beat a retreat."

As he spoke, the steps which had been coming nearer sounded loudly on the passage, a very stout, portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with a pair of very small twinkling eyes which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. He was closely followed by an inspector in uniform and by a still palpitating Thaddeus Sholto.

"Here's a business!" he exclaimed in a muffled, husky voice. "Here's a pretty business! But who are all these? Why, the house seems to be as full as a rabbit-warren!"

"I think you recollect me, Mr. Athelney Jones," said Holmes quietly as he glanced back at me, I couldn't help but just shrug in response.

"Why, of course I do!" he wheezed. "It's Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the theorist. Remember you! I'll never forget how you lectured us all on causes and inferences and effects in the Bishopgate jewel case. It's true you set us on the right track; but you'll own now that it was more by good luck than good guidance."

"It was a piece of very simple reasoning."

"Oh, come, now, come! Never be ashamed to own up. But what is all this? Bad business! Bad business! Stern facts here –no room for theories. How lucky that I happened to be out at Norwood over another case! I was at the station when the message arrived. What d'you think the man died of?"

"Oh, this is hardly a case for me to theorize over." Holmes answered dryly.

"No, no. Still we can't just deny that you hit the nail on the head sometimes. Dear me! Door locked, I understand. Jewels worth half a million missing. How was the window?"

"Fastened; but there are steps on the sill."

"Well, well, if it was fastened the steps could have nothing to do with the matter. That's common sense. Man might have died in a fit; but then the jewels are missing. Ha! I have a theory. These flashes come upon me at times. –Just step outside Sergeant, and you, Mr. Sholto. Your friend can remain. –What do you think of this, Holmes? Sholto was, on his own confession, with his brother last night. The brother died in a fit, on which Sholto walked off with the treasure? How's that?"

"And then the dead man very considerately got up and locked the door from the inside." I snapped sarcastically, not able to hold back from saying so. Athelney Jones shot me a cold glare, nonetheless he dismissed my comment.

"Hum! There's a flaw there. Let us apply common sense to the matter. This Thaddeus Sholto _was_ with his brother; there _was_ a quarrel: so much we know. The brother is dead and the jewels are gone. SO much also we know. No one saw the brother from the time Thaddeus left him. His bed had not been slept in. Thaddeus is evidently in a most disturbed state of mind. His appearance is –well, not attractive. You see that I am weaving my web round Thaddeus. The net begins to close upon him."

"You are not quite in possession of the facts yet." said Holmes. "The splinter of wood, which I have every reason to believe to be poisoned, was in the man's scalp where you still see the mark; this card, inscribed as you see it, was on the table, and besides it lay this rather curious stone-headed instrument. How does all that fit into your theory?"

"Confirms it in every respect." said the fat detective pompously. "House is full of Indian curiosities. Thaddeus brought this up, and if this splinter be poisonous Thaddeus may as well have had the murderous use of it as any other man. The card is some hocus-pocus –a blind, as like as not. The only question is how did he depart? Ah, of course, here is a hole in the roof."

With great activity, considering his bulk, he sprang up the steps and squeezed through into the garret, and immediately afterwards we heard his exulting voice proclaiming that he had found the trapdoor.

"He can find something," remarked Holmes, shrugging his shoulders. "He has occasional glimmerings of reason. _Il n' y a pas des sots si incommodes que ceux qui ont de l' espirit!"_

I just look at Holmes unbelievebleing.

"You see!" said Athelney Jones reappearing down the steps again. "facts are better than theories after all. My view of the case is confirmed. There is a trapdoor communicating with the roof, and it is partly open."

"It was I who opened it."

"Oh, indeed! You did notice it then?" he seemed a little crestfallen at the discovery. "Well, whoever noticed it, it shows how our gentleman got away. Inspector!"

"Yes, sir." from the passage.

"Ask Mr. Sholto to step this way. –, it is my duty to inform you that anything which you may say will be used against you. I arrest you in the Queen's name as being concerned in the death of your brother."

"There, now! Didn't I tell you!" cried the poor little man, throwing out his hands and looking from one to the other of us.

"Don't trouble yourself about it, Mr. Sholto." soothed Sherlock. "I think we can engage to clear you up of the charge."

"Don't promise too much, Mr. Theorist, don't promise too much!" snapped the detective. "You may find it harder matter than you think."

"Not only will I clear him, Mr. Jones, but I will make you free present of the name and description of one of the two people who were in this room last night. His name, I have every reason to believe, is Jonathan Small. He is a poorly educated man, small, active, with his right leg off, and wearing a wooden stump which is worn away upon the inner side. His left boot has a coarse, square-toed sole, with an iron band round the hell. He is a middle-aged man, much sunburned, and has been a convict. These few indications nay be of some assistance to you, coupled with the fact that there is a good deal of skin missing from the palm of his hand. The other man-"

"Ah! the other man?" asked Athelney Jones with a sneer, but sounded impressed anyway, as I could easily see, by the precision of the other's manner.

"Is rather a curious person," said Sherlock Holmes, turning upon his heel. "I hope before very long to be able to introduce you to the pair of them. A word with you, Amarantha."

He led me out of the head of the stair.

"This unexpected occurrence," he said. "has caused us rather to lose sight of the original purpose of the journey."

"I have been thinking so." I answered plainly.

"Its not right that Miss Hale should remain in this stricken house-"

"Oh no Holmes, don't you dare." I sneered nastily at him crossing my arms over my chest.

"Amarantha, you must accompany her home. She lives with Mrs. Cecil Forrester in Lower Camberwell, so it is not very far."

"But Sherlock-"

"No buts. I will wait for you here if you will drive out again. Or perhaps you are too tired?"

"Ugh." I groaned in complained. "I don't think that I could rest until I know more of this fantastic business. I have seen something of the rough side of life, but I give you my word that this quick succession of strange surprised tonight has shaken my nerve. I should like, however, to see the matter though with you, now that I have got so far."

"Your presence will be of great service to me," he answered with a grin. "We shall work the case out independently and leave this fellow Jones to exult over any mare's-nest which he may choose to construct. When you have dropped Miss Hale, I wish you to go to No. 3 Pinchin Lane, down near the water's edge at Lambeth. The third house on the right-hand side is a bird-stuffer's; Sherman is the name. You will see a weasel holding a young rabbit in the window. Knock old Sherman up and tell him, with my compliments, that I want Toby at once. You will bring Toby back in the cab with you."

"A dog, I suppose."

"Yes, a queer mongrel with a most amazing power of scent. I would rather have Toby's help than that of the whole detective force of London."

"I shall bring him then," I said. "It is one now. I ought to be back before three if I can get a fresh horse."

"And I," said Holmes. "Shall see what I can learn from Mrs. Bernstone and from the Indian servant, who, Mr. Thaddeus tells me, sleeps in the next garret. Than I shall study the great Jone's methods and listen to his not too delicate sarcasms."

I couldn't help but chuckle at this.

"'_Wir sind gewohnt dass die Menschen verhönen was sie nicht versthen,'_

"Goethe is always pithy."


	11. Chapter Ten: Sent On Errand

Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock Holmes. Though I own Amarantha!:D

Author's Notes: _So I'M BACK isn't that just great? That means the story will be uptaded every two days or so. I'm really sorry about the hiatus but i had to get it together lol. So nothing really happens in this chapter, besides the fact that Amarantha is ranting about reasons she should not like Sherlock and we find a new clue. And after this is were the story gets juicy. Messages are really appreciated. AND don't forget to rate also remember my account in formsping : /RedBowRibbon ask me anything and i mean it D:  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

The Police had brought a cab with them, and in this I escorted Miss Hale to her home. After the angelic fashion of us women, she had borne trouble with a calm face as long as there was someone weaker than herself to support, and I had found her bright and placid by the side of the housekeeper.

In the cab however, she first turned faint and then burst into a passion of weeping –so much that I almost had to beg her to shut up after thirty minutes of incessant weeping. She had told me that she thought me cold and distant upon that journey.

She little guessed the struggle within my breast, or the effort of self-restraint that held me back from kicking her out of the cab. At the time my mind was troubled with different questions and statements. Most of them about none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

I felt that years of conventionalities of life would not teach me to know his intelligent, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. Yet there were three thoughts which sealed the words of affection upon my lips.  
He was in the middle of an important investigation. It was to take him at a disadvantage to obtrude love upon him at such time.  
Worse still, he was going to become rich, as Miss Hale and him had settled to an agreement that 1/5 of the treasure was going to be his after he finished his investigation. If Holmes's researches were successful, he would be beyond wealthy.

Was it fair, was it honorable, that a simple girl should take advantage of such intimacy which chance had brought about? Might he not look upon me as a mere vulgar fortune seeker? I could not bear to rise that such a though should cross his mind. This Agra treasure intervened like an impassable barrier between us.

And even worse was the fact that in the mail I had received a steamboat ticket from my sister. Urging me to go back to America in a period of four months. It would not be fair for me to simply tell him I love him and then leave a months later. Hell it wouldn't even be fair for me. After all I'm not even sure if I'd be able to come back at all after I stayed in America; hopefully I'd be able to, but it's still not a sure fact.

It was nearly two o'clock when we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester's. The servants had retired hours ago, but Mrs. Forrester had been so interested by the strange message which Miss Hale had received that she had sat up in the hope of her return.

She opened the door herself, a middle-aged, graceful woman, and it gave me joy to see how tenderly she greeted us and how motherly was the voice she had. Miss Hale was clearly no mere paid dependant, but an honored friend.

I was introduced, and Mrs. Forrester earnestly begged me to step in and tell her our adventures. I explained, however, the importance of my errand and promised faithfully to call and report any progress which we might make with the case.

As we drove away I stole a glance back, and I still seem to see that little group upon the step –two clinging figures, the half opened door, the hall-light shining through stained glass, the barometer and the bright stair-rods and remained me of my own home.

It was soothing to catch even that passing glimpse of a tranquil English home in the midst of the wild, dark business which had absorbed us.

And the more I thought of what had happened, the wilder and darker it grew. I reviewed the whole extraordinary sequence of events as I rattled through the silent, gas-lit streets. There was the original problem: that at least was pretty clear now. The death of Captain Hale, the sending of the pearls, the advertisement, the letter –we had light all upon those events.

They had only led us, however, to a deeper and far more tragic mystery. The Indian treasure, the curious plan found among Hale's baggage, the strange scene at Major Sholto's death, the rediscovery of the treasure immediately followed by the murder of the discoverer, the very singular accompaniments to the crime, the footsteps, the remarkable weapons, the words upon the card, corresponding with those upon Captain Hale's chart –here was indeed a labyrinth in which a man less singularly endowed than my fellow-lodger might well despair of every finding the clue.

Pinchin Lane was a row of shabby, two-storied brick houses in the lower quarter of Lambeth. I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make an impression. At last, however, there was a glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.

"Go on, you drunken whore," said the face. "If you kick up any more row, I'll open the kennels and let out forty-three dogs upon you."

"If you'll let one out, it's just what I have come for." I said.

"Go on!" yelled the voice. "So help me gracious, I have a wiper in this bag, and I'll drop it on your 'ead if you don't hook it!"

"But I want a dog," I cried.

"I won't be argued with!" shouted Mr. Sherman. "Now stand clear; for when I saw 'three', down goes the wiper."

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes –" I began; but the words had a most magical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, and a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses. I swear I'm never gonna get used to the effect the mention of his name had upon people.

"A friend of Mr. Sherlock is always welcome," he said. "Step in, dear. Keep clear of the badger, for he bites. Ah, naughty, naughty; would you take a nip at the lady?" This to a stoat which trust it's wicked head and red eyes between the bars of its cage. "Don't mind that, miss; it's only a slowworm. It hain't got no fangs, so I gives it the run o' the room, for it keeps the beetles down. You must not mind my bein' just a little short wi' you at first, for I am guyed at by the children, and there's many a one just comes down this lanes to knock me up. What was it that Mr. Sherlock Holmes wanted, miss?"

"He wanted a dog of yours."

"Ah! that would be Toby."

"Yes, Toby was the name."

"Toby lives at No. 7 on the left here."

He moved slowly forward with his candle among the queer animal family witch he had gathered round him. In the uncertain, shadowy light I could see dimly that there were glancing, glimmering eyes peeping down at us from every cranny and corner. Even the rafters above our heads were lined by solemn fowls, who lazily shifter their weight form one leg to the other as our voices disturbed their slumbers.

Toby proved to be an ugly, long haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown and white in color, with a very clumsy, waddling gait. It accepted, after some hesitation a lump of sugar which the old naturalist handed to me, and, having thus sealed an alliance, it followed me to the cab and made no difficulties about accompanying me.

It had just struck three on the Palace clock when I found myself back once more at Pondicherry Lodge. The ex-prize-fighter McMurdo had, I found, been arrested as an accessory, and both he and Mr. Sholto had been marched off to the station. Two constables guarded the narrow gate, but they allowed me to pass with the dog on my mentioning the detective's name.

Holmes was standing on the doorstep with his hands in his pockets, smoking his pipe.

"Ah, you have him there!" he said. "Good dog, then! Athelney Jones has gone. We had an immense display of energy since you left. He has arrested not only friend Thaddeus but the gatekeeper, the housekeeper, and the Indian servant. We have the place to ourselves but for a sergeant upstairs. Leave the dog here and come up."

We tied Toby to the hall table and reascended the stairs. The room was as we had left it, save that a sheet had been draped over the central figure. A weary looking police sergeant reclined in the corner.

"Lend me your bull's eye, Sergeant," said my companion. "Now tie this bit of card round my neck, so as to hang it in front of me. Thank you. Now I must kick off my boots and stockings. Just you carry them down with you, Amarantha. I am going to do a little climbing. And dip my handkerchief into the creosote. That will do. Now come up into the garret with me for a moment."

We clambered up through the hole. Holmes turned his light once more upon his footsteps in the dust.

"I wish you particularly to notice these footmarks." he said. "Do you observe anything noteworthy about them?"

"They belong," I answered. "to a child or a small woman."

"Apart from their size, though. Is there nothing else?"

"To me they appear to be much as other footmarks."

"Not at all. Look here! This is the print of a right foot in the dust. Now I make one with my naked foot beside it. What is the chief difference?"

"Your toes are all cramped together and ugly. The other print has each toe distinctly divided." I grinned. "What's your point Holmes?"

"Quite so. That's is the point. Bear that in mind. Now, would you kindly step over to the flap-window and smell the edge of the woodwork? I shall stay over here, as I have this handkerchief in my hand."

I did as he directed and was instantly conscious of a strong tarry smell.

"That is were he put his foot in getting out. If _you_ can trace him, I should think that Toby will have no difficulty. Now run downstairs, loose the dog, and look out for Blondin please."

By the time that I got out into the grounds Sherlock Holmes was on the roof, and I could see him crawling very slowly along the ridge. I lost sight of him behind a stack of chimneys, but he presently reappeared and then vanished once more upon the opposite side. When I made my way round there I found him seated at one of the corner eaves.

"That you, Amarantha?" he asked.

"No it's the Easter bunny you genius."

He rolled his eyes ignoring my comment. "This is the place. What is black thing down there?"

"A water barrel."

"Top on it."

"Yes!"

"No sign of a ladder?"

"No."

"Confound the fellow! It's a most breakneck place. I ought to be able to come down where he could climb up. The water pipe feels pretty firm. Here goes, anyhow."

There was a scuffling of feet, and the lantern began to come steadily down the side of the wall. Then with a light spring he came down on top of the barrel, and from there to the ground.

"It was easy to follow him," he said, drawing his stockings and boots. "Tiles were loosened the whole way along, and in his hurry he had dropped thus. It confirms my diagnosis, as the doctors express it."

The object which he held up to me was a small pocket or pouch woven out of colored grasses and with a few tawdry beads strung round it. In shape and side it was not unlike a cigarette-case. Inside were half a dozen spines of dark wood , sharp at one end and rounded at the other, like that which had struck Bartholomew Sholto.

"They are hellish things," he said. "Look out that you don't prick yourself. I'm delighted to have them, for the chances are that they are all he has. There is the less fear of you or me finding pone in our skin before long. I would sooner face a Martini bullet, myself. Are you game for a six-mile trudge, Amarantha?"

"Certainly." I answered.

"You asthma will stand it?"

I was struck at his questions; it had been years since I last told anyone I suffered from asthma, though I wasn't that surprised. He's Sherlock Holmes after all. "Oh yes."

"Here you are, doggy! Good old Toby! Smell it, Toby, smell it!" he pushed the creosote handkerchief under the dog's nose while the creature stood with his fluffy legs separated, and with a most comical angle on its head, like a connoisseur sniffing the bouquet of a famous vintage.

Holmes threw the handkerchief to a distance, fastened a stout cord to the mongrel's collar, and let him to the foot of the water barrel. The creature with his nose to the ground and his tail in the air, pattered off upon the trail at a pace which strained his leash and kept us at the top of our speed.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Episode The Barrel

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes.  
_Another chapter! (: I'm so happy like 31 of you guys have read my last chapter. like seriously you guys are amazing! I hope you guys have a laugh at the last part of this chapter, which is the one that i enjoyed the most writing haha, and please don't forget to rate &message, above all messaging encourages me on posting more chapters (:  
Oh and.  
Yuki Uzumaki: Thanks A LOT for your review :D like seriously. And ahaha i know sometimes i get a little too carried on with the grammar xD Anyway as you said with the romance, i'm gonna put this two through a whole lot of tension and awkward moments. So don't worry (: I plan this story having 20 chapters at the very least, 19 of them which are already written lol._

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
_

The east had been gradually whitening and we could now see some distance in the cold gray light. The square, massive house, with its black, empty windows and high, bare walls, towered up, sad and forlorn, behind us. Our course led right across the grounds, in and out among the trenches and pits with which they were scarred and intersected. The whole place, wit its scattered dirt-heaps and ill-grown shrubs, had a blighted, ill-omened oak which harmonized with the black tragedy that hung over it.

On reaching the boundary wall Toby ran along, whining eagerly, underneath its shadow, and stopped finally in a corner screened by a young beech. Where the two wall joined, several bricks had been loosened, and the crevices left were worn down and rounded upon the lower side, as though they had frequently been used a as a ladder. Holmes clambered up, and taking the dog from me he dropped it over upon the other side.

"There's the print of the Wooden-leg's hands," he remarked as I mounted up beside him. "You see the slight smudge of blood upon the white plaster. What a lucky thing it is that we have had no very heavy rain since yesterday! The scent will lie upon the road in spite of their eight-and-twenty hours' start."

I confess that I had my doubts myself when I reflected upon the great traffic which had passed along the London Road in the interval. My fears were soon appeased, however. Toby never hesitated or swerved but waddled on his peculiar rolling fashion. Clearly the pungent smell of the creosote rose high above all the other contending scents.

"Do not imagine," said Holmes. "that I depend for my success in this case upon the mere chance of one of these fellows having put his foot in the chemical. I have knowledge now which would enable me to trace them in many different ways. This, however, is the readiest, and, since fortune has put it into our hands, I should be culpable to neglected it. It has, however, prevented the case from becoming the pretty little intellectual problem which it at one time promised to be. There might have been some credit to be gained out of it but for this too palpable clue."

"There is credit, and to spare," I said. "I assure you, Holmes, that I marvel at the means by which you obtain your results in this case. The thing seems to me to be deeper and more inexplicable. How, for example, could you describe with such confidence the wooden-legged man?"

"Pshaw, my dear girl! It was simplicity itself. I don't wish to be theatrical. It is all patent and above-board. Two officers who are in command of a convict-guard learn an important secret as the buried treasure. A map is drawn for them by an Englishman named Jonathan Small. You remember that we saw the name upon the chart in Captain Hale's possession. He had signed it in behalf of himself and his associates –the sign of the four, as he somewhat dramatically called it. Aided by this chart, the officers –or one of them –gets the treasure and brings it to England, leaving, we will suppose, some condition under which he received it unfulfilled. Now, then, why did not Jonathan Small get the treasure himself? The answer is obvious. The chart is dated at the time when Hale was brought into close association with convicts. Jonathan Small did not get the treasure because he and his associates were themselves the convicts and could not get away."

"But this is a mere speculation," I answered in shockingly fashion.

"It is more than that. It is the only hypothesis which covers the facts. Let us see how it fits in with the sequel. Major Sholto remains at peace for some years, happy in the possession of his treasure. Then he receives letter from India which gives him a great fright. What was that?"

"A letter to say that the men whom he had wronged had been set free."

"Or escaped. That is much more likely, for he would have known what their term of imprisonment was. It would not have been a surprise to him. What does he do then? He guards himself against a wooden legged man –a white man, mark you, for he mistakes a white tradesmen for him and actually fires a pistol at him. Now, only one white man's name is on the chart. The others are Hindus or Mohammedans. There is no other white man. Therefore we may say with confidence that the wooden-legged man is identical with Jonathan Small. Does the reasoning strike you as being faulty?"

"No at all; it is pretty clear and concise."

"Well, now, let us put ourselves in the place of Jonathan Small. Let us look at it from his point of view. He comes to England with the double idea of regaining what he could consider to be his rights and of having his revenge upon the man who had wronged him. He found out where Sholto lived, and very possibly established communications with someone inside the house. There is the butler, Lal Rao, whom we have not seen. Mrs. Bernstone gives him far from a good character. Small could not find out, however, where the treasure was hid, for no one ever knew save the major and one faithful servant who had died. Suddenly Small learns that the major is on his deathbed. In a frenzy lest the secret of the treasure die with him, he runs the gauntlet of guards, makes his way to the dying man's window, and is only deterred from entering by the presence of his two sons. Mad with hate, however, against the dead man, he enters the room at night, searches his private papers in hope of discovering some memorandum relating to the treasure, and finally leaves a memento of his visit in the short inscription upon the card. He had doubtless planned beforehand that, should he slay the major, he would leave some such record upon the body as a sign that it was not a common murder but, from the point of view of the four associates, something in the nature of an act of justice. Whimsical and bizarre conceits of this kind are common enough in the annals of crime and usually afford valuable indications as to the criminals. Do you follow all this?

"Very clearly."

"Now what could Jonathan Small do? He could only continue o keep a secret watch upon the efforts made to find the treasure. Possibly he leaves England and only comes back at intervals. Then comes to the discovery of the garret, and he is instantly informed of it. We again trace the presence of some confederate in the household. Jonathan, with his wooden leg, is utterly unable to reach the lofty room of Bartholomew Sholto. He takes with him, however, a rather curious associate, who gets over this difficulty but dips his naked foot into creosote, whence come Toby, and a six-mile limp for a half-pay officer with a damaged tendo Achillis."

"But it was the associate not Jonathan who committed the crime."

"Quite so. And rather to Jonathan's disgust, to judge by the way he stamped about when he got into the room. he bore no grudge against Bartholomew Sholto and would have preferred if he could have been simply bound and gagged. He did not wish to put his head in halter. There was no help for it, however; the savage instincts of his companion had broken out, and the poison had done its work: so Jonathan Small left his record, lowered the treasure-box to the ground, and followed it himself. That was the train of events as far as I can decipher them. Of course, as to his personal appearance, he must be middle-aged and must be sunburned after serving his time in such an oven as the Andaman's. His height is readily calculated from the length of his stride, and we know that he was bearded. His hairiness was he one point which impressed itself upon Thaddeus Sholto when he saw him at the window. I don't know that there is anything else."

"And what about the associate?" I raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Ah, well there is no great mystery in that. But you will know all about it soon enough. How sweet the morning air is! See how that one little cloud floats like a pink feather from some gigantic flamingo. Now the red rim of the sun pushes itself over the London cloud-bank. It shines on a good many folk, but on none, I dare bet, who are on a stranger errand than you and I? How small we feel with our pretty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces of Nature! Are you well up in your Jean Paul?"

"Fairly so. I worked back to him through Carlyle."

"That was like following the brook of the parent lake. He makes one curious but profound remark. It is that the chief of a man's real greatness is in his perception of his own smallness. It argues, you see, a power of comparison and of appreciation which is in itself a proof of nobility. There is much food for thought in Richter. You had not a pistol, have you?"

"I have my bag and nails?"

"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if he even touches you I'll shoot him dead."

He took out his revolver as he spoke, and, having loaded two of the chambers, he placed it back into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.

We had during this time been following the guidance of Toby down the half-rural villa-lined roads which lead to the metropolis. Now, however, we were beginning to come among continuous streets, where the labourers and dockmen were already astir, and slatternly woman were taking down shutters and brushing doorsteps. At the square-topped corner public-houses business was just beginning, and rough-looking men were emerging, rubbing their sleeves across their beards after their morning wet. Strange dogs suatenered up and stared wonderingly at us as we bass, but our intimitable Toby looked neither right nor to the left but trotted onwards with his nose to the ground and an occasional eager whine which spoke of a hot scent.

We had traversed Streatham, Brixton, Camberwell and now found ourselves in Kennington Lane, having borne away through the sides streets of the east of the Oval. The men whom we pursued seemed o have taken a curiously zigzag road, wit the idea of probably escaping observation. They had never kept to the main road if a parallel side street would serve their turn. At the foot of Kennington Lane they had edged away to the left though Bond Street and Miles Street. Where the latter street turns into Knight's Place, Toby ceased to advance but began to run backwards and forward with one ear cocked and the other dropping, the very picture of canine indecision. Then he waddled round in circles, looking up to us from time to time, as if to ask sympathy in his embarrassment.

"What the deuce is the matter with the dog?" growled Holmes. "They surely would not take a cab or go off in a balloon."

"Perhaps they stood here for some time," I suggested with an unsure smile.

"Ah! it's alright. He's off again," said my companion in a tone of relief.

He was indeed off, for another sniffing round again he suddenly made up his mind and darted away with an energy and determination such as he had not yet shown. The scent appeared to be much hotter than before, for he had not even to put his nose on the ground but tugged at his leash and tried to break into a run. I could see by the gleam in Holmes eyes that he though we were nearing the end of our journey.

Our course now ran down Nine Elms until we came to Broderick and Nelson's large timber-yard just past the White Eagle tavern. Here the dog, frantic with excitement, turned down through the side gate into the enclosure, where the sawyers were already at work. On the dog raced through sawdust and sharvings, down an alley, round a passage, between two wood piles, and finally, with a triumphant yelp, sprang upon a large barrel which still stood upon the hand-trolley on which it had been brought.  
With lolling tongue and blinking eyes Toby stood upon the cask, looking form one to the other of us for some sign of appreciation. The staves of the barrel and the wheels of the trolley were smeared with a dark liquid, and the whole air was heavy with the smell of creosote.

Sherlock Holmes and I looked blacked at each other and then simultaneously bursted into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.


End file.
